


the Major Arcana (To The World)

by chameleonwren



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Blood Magic, Dancing, Magic, Magic-Users, Meet-Cute, Multi, Other, Performance Art, Rituals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-12-09 09:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonwren/pseuds/chameleonwren
Summary: "An eager fox chasing his new crush down a long, dark rabbit hole."self-indulgence: the novel





	1. (0) the Fool

A sharp trill of foreign flutes splits the district square, as well as the eardrums of everyone within. 

While Vesuvia’s annual Masquerade event is famous is in its own right, the seventh royal Princess of Prakra is by far the most note-worthy guest ever in attendance. 

Echoes of her instrumental announcement bounce down every canal-way in the heart district. Decorated as it is with fineries from surrounding countries. Any cultured traveler might notice the inspiration drawn from Prakran art and traditions, to honor the visiting royalty. 

Nearing the end of its long journey from Prakra, an entourage of opulent carriages rolls through busy streets.

Vesuvia has never known such fashion. Count Lucio himself certainly disagrees (loudly; and since it's his birthday, nobody dares to shush him), but the Prakran carriages are designed with significantly better taste than the entire fleet at Lucio’s disposal.

While all nine Prakran vessels boast a gleaming golden trim, only _one_ is painted red. (A maroon that doesn’t even burn its beholder’s irises - which is more than can be said for the Count’s canary-yellow and tomato fleet.) The other eight range from a delicate pale pink through to the richest imperial purple. Altogether, the retinue glides over the landscape like a rainbow.

Or, rather, successively stalls across the landscape. 

If the visiting royals had _just listened_ to the Count when he suggested arriving by sea, they would have sailed smoothly into the Palace harbour hours ago. Alas, their land-bound vessels inch through winding walkways, over dubiously stable viaducts, slowly approaching the Palace entrance.

Merchants, hosts, and attendees alike crowd narrow streets to glimpse the carriages, and powerful ungulates drawing them. 

From a tent in the artist’s alley, where he waits with the remainder of his unsold masks, Asra watches the attendees push forward. Daring to undermine well-armed and mounted, but fretful-looking guards, for just a glance. 

And so, handfuls of party attendees are hastily ushered into one of many clothing booths or mask stalls which line the drawbridge. 

Asra’s view suddenly obscures behind assorted party guests. 

They cluster by the exit, peering out and whispering. Snippets of overlapping conversations in various languages bounce inside the tent.

“…forging alliances…” “…hope she stays for a long…” “…Count’s going to lose his hold…”

_<”…system is just what this city needs, in sooth.”> _

“…all the same, a royal won’t be any…” 

While they gossip, one splits apart from the group. 

The upper half of their face is obscured by an exquisite silver rabbit mask, but Asra can see bright magenta eyes glistening with awe through perfectly rounded eye-holes. They take steady, marching steps toward a rack of masks. Vibrant gaze transfixed.

A blush of pride grips him as Asra watches the stranger admiring his works of art. 

Steadily, the gossiping throngs file back out to follow the spectrum of carriages. One party-goer without a mask lingers in the doorway, speaking quietly to the rabbit-masked customer. Who waves a dismissive hand, not looking away from Asra’s displays.

With a shrug, the unmasked guest hurries after the entourage, leaving Asra alone with the transfixed customer.

_They can’t actually be thinking of replacing their mask with one of mine?_ The thought seems too romantic to be true, but Asra politely inquires all the same.

“Do you need a new mask?”

The stranger startles, spinning to face him. Long strands of silvery hair flow lazily behind.

“_Oh?_ No, I was just pushed in here by a guard. I’m terribly sorry,” the stranger speaks in clipped tones. Their careful pronunciation of each syllable paints a foggy image of their native tongue. “I promise I won’t get in the way of your customers…” 

Asra glances around the booth, now empty save for the two of them. The dwindling number of masks for sale makes the booth feel emptier still. He presses his lips together, then gets up to stand by them. “Get in the way of _who_, exactly?” He chuckles, watching their shoulders draw together in embarrassment. “Please, feel free to look around.”

They do so, turning away from Asra and disappearing behind their mask. Long white bunny ears arc behind their head, glittering in the late afternoon sun.

Upon closer inspection, Asra notes hundreds of tiny crystals cover the back of the ears. 

He can only reflect on the poor soul who made it; hunched over for days to secure every gem. Not to mention the weight it must bear on its wearer’s neck… though, with such remarkably well-defined neck muscles… Asra’s gaze wanders the contours of the stranger’s jawline, before returning to their costume. 

A fitted jacket frames their body, in varying hues of grey. Bordering patterns in charcoal grey breaks up what would otherwise be a hideous pale mass. 

Delicate grey lace shrouds porcelain white skin. He also spies slivers of a bleached brow; starker than any face powders he’s ever seen before. 

It isn’t a trick of the light, Asra finally realises. Not even a coat of powder; their natural skin tone appears unusually absent of melanin. Taking them in again, the aesthetic is quite breath-taking. Against their snow-white features, the crystals and embroidery of their costume even marvel a little bit less.

“I don’t imagine anything I’ve made can match the value of what you’re wearing already, though,” Asra prompts, finding that he wants to hear the stranger’s voice again.

They snort derisively.

For a split second, Asra fears he’s offended them.

“_This_,” they hiss, lifting a hand to the mask. Ghostly pale fingers trace the edge, as if they want to remove it. Asra can’t blame them; if it’s as heavy as it looks. 

A line of fine stitching around the temples of the mask, however, has secured the mask so firmly that to remove it will cost destroying the hem. 

“The Count commissioned it.” 

“Th- _The _Count?” Asra stammers. 

The stranger nods.

“You know Count Lucio?”

“I do.” Their affirmation is distant; muffled. After a moment of silence, they flash a thin smile. “The Count hired me to dance,” they explain. “The mask is… a part for the performance.”

Asra processes the information slowly. Designing his mask and costume each year was definitely his favourite part of the Masquerade. Nothing and nobody could convince him that _personal aesthetic_ wasn’t at the heart of the annual event. To celebrate individuality - by permission of the city-state's _oh so generous_ tyrant.

Asra’s masks are a direct expression of that individuality. Most inspired by customers he'd consulted cards for, or a recent one-night-stand. Their personal aesthetic, as far as he could glean.

It was a fond traditional by now. To craft masks he wouldn’t wear in the months preceding the Masquerade; a creative challenge. One which became all the more educational as he and Muriel learned new details about their favourite animals, and gained fascinating new insights into the earth’s subtle but intricate weave. How each creature supports each other in an endless cycle of life. Some without ever knowing or touching what lets them thrive.

He fancies the same of his mask collection. Each mask with a place among the whole, as well as standing as an individual work of art. 

Each one made especially for some lucky stranger. Each to hold meanings and memories which Asra might never touch or know.

He wonders, idly, which of his masks stand out to this rabbit-guised stranger. He tries to peer behind their mask; attention no longer captivated by its extravagant craft, but by the direction of its wearer's gaze.

“So, you didn’t get to choose your own mask?” A mild streak of pity sticks in his throat.

To his surprise, the stranger laughs.

“You sound _so sad?_ Just for a mask? I can choose to wear a mask whenever I want.” They turn to face him properly, having looped the entire booth and admired every piece. “I could not even begin to choose one of yours, though. They all are so beautiful.”

“Tha- I- Thank you, that’s so kind of you.” Asra takes a moment to admire his own masks, content with the well-earned compliment. He can’t take full credit, of course. Most of the better paint jobs are Muriel’s handiwork, but Asra had carved every single one with careful devotion.

"Not kindness. It is recognition," they smile, not unkindly, but a weariness slides between the simple stretch of their lips.

Silence settles between them, then - though neither would call it an uncomfortable one. 

They turn to leave, seemingly hesitant. Then pause in the doorway.

"We dance in the main ballroom after sunset. All night, we will be there. It is hard to miss… if you desire to not miss it.”

“I’ll be sure to,” Asra starts, but the stranger has already hopped on.

\+ ~ + ~ +

When the winter sun sets that early eve, Asra finds his way to the ballroom.

A large, circular platform claims the bulk of the space. Tall enough to stand inside. Curved mirrors ring the perimeter, resonating other-worldly magic. 

Asra tentatively weaves through thick crowds to nestle by the edge of the stage.

When the dance begins, he doesn’t see the stranger or their mask. 

Four figures, all wearing black, approach from behind a curtain. Two of them carry a wooden coffin onto the stage, while the other two don sleek black top-hats and follow behind. 

Low vocalisations accompany the performers. After all four walk on stage, a steady drumbeat joins.

Asra searches the room for any sign of a musician - or any sign of a sterling rabbit mask - but it is too dark to see beyond the stage now. Bright spots of magic illuminate the stage from above, while an equally unnatural darkness permeates everywhere not meant to be seen. Asra focuses on his own magic, clearing his vision of magical interference. 

The spell’s energy stirs his snake familiar from her rest, and draws the room back into place around him.

Directly above the stage, two lengths of strong red silk drape from the ceiling. Suspended between them, arms and legs wrapped tightly in the cloth, hangs a familiar figure. Dressed down to a simple performance leotard, their face is still concealed by leporid features. Asra can still see their eyes, though. Bright rubies in the darkness.

They gaze down at the other performers, presumably waiting for their cue.

Below them, the coffin has been placed centre-stage. If they drop straight down, they’d land directly on top of it. 

Asra’s eyes trace the lines of aerial silk up and down, breath halted in his chest. He feels every other member of the audience channeling his anticipation.

Two of the dancers in black begin to move rhythmically around the stage, leading the two without hats to opposite sides. Each pair performs in tandem; interpreting a typical stage magician’s routine. 

The assistants are sawn in half and put back together. The magicians produce endless strings of tied handkerchiefs, and several bouquets of flowers which are thrown to the crowd. Between each act, the assistants switch sides, miming an endless feud of sabotage and vengeance. 

Scatterings of laughter and applause greet each new turn of the dance.

After a nearly complete magician’s routine is danced out, both top-hats are lifted from their dancer’s heads and held aloft. 

Those without hats spin away, just as a mist begins to wash over the stage. It thickens to fog, swirling about the dancers’ feet as they move clockwise around the circular stage. 

All four stand evenly apart around the stage. Then, with a synchronised flourish, the two magicians reach inside their top-hats, fumbling momentarily before tugging on a pair of rabbit ears. What they pull out, however; is just a small, flat pelt of white fur.

Above, white leotard flexes with the dancer’s shoulders and hips, loosening the silk’s hold. They begin to slide down, but clever placement of mirrors illudes the rabbit’s rise. 

The audience gasps, as they see the masked aerialist lift out of the fog above the coffin, trailing crimson silk behind. The crystals on their mask catch spotlights and scatter a hundred pin-pricks of light across the audience.

Two dancing assistants continue, while the magicians collapse into a choreographed heap. The drumbeat stutters, like a dying heartbeat. 

Accompanying vocals drop pitch, beginning to sing mournful, operatic poetry.

_“**As haunted rabbit comes to parting, from** final breath of one so lively,"_ the voice is low and steady. _“To this warning, beg you hearken: Your hat is but a cage to starve in; and passion struck by stars will blind ye.”_

Asra figures he is the only person in the room able to see past the unnatural shadows concealing the real dancer. While the remainder of the audience watches the ghostly reflection mirrored on stage, Asra’s head is tilted upwards, enraptured.

_“**As the spirit goes on dancing, in** patterns fathomed fleet their passing, consider where do fools rush blindly.”_

Red silk waves as the white rabbit finesses through various forms. 

Each movement is calculated, from steady hands to flexed thighs gripping silk. They hold them-self aloft like a snake on a branch. 

At the thought, Faust worms her way through Asra’s clothing to perch surreptitiously on his shoulder. Her long lavender body coils and uncoils excitedly, watching the dancer twisting through the air.

_‘Want to play!’_ She thinks, inching forwards down Asra’s arm. Her head darts forward before Asra can register her intent.

She snatches a mouthful of his scarf, propelling her slender self forward. She coils like a whip in the momentum. Instead of constricting it, however; Faust lets the scarf slip loosely between her scales. She rides Asra’s scarf all the way down.

With a soft scale-y _fwump_, she lands safely, but needs a second to reorient. 

In that second, Asra pounces. It takes considerable effort to look away from the dance, but he has to in order to stop Faust from slithering away. With concentration broken, the dancer’s spotlights flood the stage.

But thankfully, nobody notices Faust.

Re-casting a simple spell of true-sight, Asra returns to attention.

_“**Though thoughts inside you seem to darken; shadowed** foregrounds part with answers, if questioned only once, and wisely.”_

The dancer has climbed high up the silk, waist and thighs wrapped many times over. They stretch out all four limbs. Long white rabbit ears make five points of a star.

The rabbit mask effectively conceals their brow and cheeks, but their jaw is clearly visible. They wear a poised smile; effortless and performative. As they rotate in place, they catch notice of Asra staring up at them through layers of illusion. 

For a moment, when their eyes meet, the dancer’s smile twists into something far more genuine.

The moment doesn’t last long. With a wink, their focus shifts.

One small re-position of a foot, and they’re twisting through the grip of red silk, falling into a dead-drop. The mirrors catch a spectacular swirling of crimson sheets as they plummet. Asra’s heart leaps in fear, but the dancer’s waist is caught by silk at the last second. 

Instead of crashing headfirst into the stage, they swing above it. Long white hair floats around them, oscillating with red silk. 

_“**Since poor rabbit dies while gasping for** air we often use when laughing, an Angel’s trek here comes less likely.”_

Time seems to slow, suspending strands of snowy white hair.

Silks ripple around the dancer at half speed.

Gasps scatter with gentle applause, which Asra eagerly espouses. 

His hands clap loosely together, then pause. 

In moving, he realises the passage of time _has_ been slowed. Or at least, in a bubble around the stage, magic has made it appear to.

Squinting through the new illusion to focus on reality beneath, Asra spies dancers hastily repositioning. Two scoop up discarded scraps of white fur and the top-hats they were pulled from. Another dancer pulls open the coffin’s lid, while the fourth exchanges the props for a bundle of red cloth.

In the centre, the aerial dancer rests two feet atop the coffin prop to catch their breath. Seconds pass, and then they’re right back it. Delicately guiding them-self upright, hands twist through cloth with practiced patience. A firm fist unwraps the silk from their waist. 

The time-warping illusion ends with a flourish from the white rabbit. Asra can still sense their magic pouring into the magical lights and shadows, though; even as they move again. 

Around them, the other dancers have dropped to their knees, watching and waving a flat red sheet in synchrony. The two assistants stand, twisting the sheet around the rabbit.

_“**Now four shadows beg you hearken: Always** question a magician’s bargain, if they’re excused from asking nicely.”_

The lyrics send a shiver down Asra’s spine. When he’d been invited by a diamond-encrusted rabbit to watch a sun-set dance, he’d somehow pictured something distinctly less... _morbid_.

Though, if the Count commissioned the masks, Asra assumes he likely commissioned the entire performance.

_There really is no accounting for that man’s taste._

The two magicians finally move again, dancing on their knees toward the coffin. Their assistants drag them back.

_“**As the spirits go on dancing: To** the warnings, beg you hearken,”_ the singer concludes, leading back into an instrumental swell.

Still kneeling, magicians fight and grope towards the rabbit, clawing through red silk as the dancer’s body begins emitting a glow. Brighter and brighter; as spotlights dim.

The body of light splinters and falls apart. In their place, five white rabbits sprint across the stage.

It takes Asra a serious moment of intense scrutiny to determine that only _one_ of the rabbits is a real, living creature - the other four are more illusions.

The dancers in black break into a choreographed chase around the stage. All four lunge for a different illusion, while the real rabbit scurries down a trapdoor in the stage, which opens briefly.

Two assistants trap one of the magicians’ limbs in cloth as they race around the stage. 

One by one, the rabbit illusions disappear into supernal shadows. 

By the end, those giving chase have wrapped themselves thoroughly in the red sheet, trapping them all in the centre of the stage. They stumble on the beat, then slowly sink into a heap as the magic lights flicker and shift around them.

The audience applauds weakly, at first; then with exponential energy. 

Wild bursts of claps and cheers sweep Asra into a roaring pack. Even Faust wiggles with silent applause.

The dancers clap with their audience, each wearing mad grins. They make half-hearted attempts to unravel themselves when the trapdoor in the stage opens again. 

The top of a sandy-blond head emerges.

After the magical lighting effects fade, the blond climbs onto the stage. 

_“Thank you, **thank you**, thank you **all****!**"_ They address the audience enthusiastically. As they spread arms to the crowd, a tiny drum-set around their neck swings wildly. "What an amazing response! What a _gracious, beautiful audience_! I could watch you cheering all _night_!” 

The blond stops to help unwrap the dancers.

Once free, they share a wobbly group hug. The blond looms a good head and a half taller than the rest.

All jitter excitedly in place as the drummer turns to show them off to the crowd. 

“If I could please direct your appreciation toward our lovely dancers; Esriel! Grace! Matilda, and Roan!” They step forward as their names are called, bowing and blowing kisses. 

The final one called, Roan, spins dramatically and splays wide open arms at their announcer.

“And a round of applause for our musician: Benedikt!” Roan shouts.

Applause swells. Relieved sighs sprinkle the audience. 

Benedikt pulls out a pair of sticks to drum a jaunty beat. At the sound, a small white rabbit emerges from the hatch on stage.

“Finally, folks!” Roan continues as Benedikt’s tune fades. “Let’s hear a very special cheer for the white rabbit, Anri!”

The rabbit laps the stage, before taking a running leap at the aerial silks.

It glows mid-air, transforming into a humanoid figure just before catching cloth. The rabbit mask reforms like a dazzling crown, storing the resonance of transfiguration.

The aerial silks swing Anri out over the top of the audience, then back and over the other side. Four dancers and a musician join hands below, turning to bow at each cardinal point around the circular stage. 

Anri bows in mid-air, spinning, before sliding down to conclude the act.

_They’ll leave the stage soon..._

Perhaps to retire backstage until the next showing, or perhaps to join the celebrations. 

_Wherever they go next_, Asra thinks, he will follow. 

When the encore is complete and the dancers are carrying their coffin off-stage, he indeed stalks close behind. An eager fox chasing his new crush down a long, dark rabbit hole.

He catches up to his prey as the troupe disappears behind a partition. A long curtain shrouds the performer’s break zone from the general area.

Anri stands patiently by its entrance, letting other performers scurry past toward the stage. They laugh breathlessly at something unheard, responding candidly. In a language which Asra cannot quite place. The mystery thrills.

He rushes forward, their name caught in his throat. Just as Anri steps away and draws the curtain behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading ^0^


	2. (I) the Magician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M for Strong language and Sexual references  
Content warnings: Ritual blood magic, self-inflicted lacerations, Depictions of sacrificial violence, 1 use of “weirdo”
> 
> __
> 
> "Kjetil" is pronounced CHEH-til

Since his encounter with Anri at the Masquerade, Asra takes any possible opportunity to mention their name.

“I wonder what Anri’s doing right now.”

Muriel sickens of it after a month, retreating into the forest for an impromptu hermitage. Asra still hasn’t tired of the name by the time Muriel returns.

“I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but if I see Anri next year I want to give them a mask they’ll _like_… I just don’t know what they like.”

His quest reforges anew. Dozens of hand-carved masks, all with one in mind. Rabbits and foxes, doves and deer. Snakes, horses, llamas, even a goose. Each one feels like it comes close. Then, just like Anri’s magic, that feeling will shift and change.

“I wish you could have seen Anri dancing…”

With all his talk, Asra damn near convinces Muriel to attend the next year’s Masquerade with him.

“If only just to see Anri’s magic! Imagine if you could learn something like that, Muriel. Nobody would bother you if you were an _actual_ bear.”

Muriel would never admit to actually being persuaded, however; only that Asra’s _persistence_ wore him down.

“Honestly, Muriel, I think you and Anri would really get along. And I don’t say that about most people.”

In the end, Muriel does what he always did: lovingly paint the masks Asra doesn’t finish, and conveniently disappear at the start of Masquerade season.

“Have you ever seen magic like Anri’s before, Muriel?”

Muriel has not.

“It was just so _bold_, you know? Unafraid… _proud_… like they _know_ they have nothing to be ashamed of.”

There is a name for spells like that. ‘Grosse’ magic, though Muriel might sooner call it _vulgar_. Opposed to a subtle curse, or ward, or communion; it spits in the face of private practitioners. 

Once upon a time, perhaps, Muriel might have said that illusions were a magic reserved for tricksters and snake charmers. If he ever felt like saying much of anything at all. But in times before meeting Asra, he never had a soul to say such to anyhow. And after working for Count Lucio, he’d given up on a mind to speak from. So, when the date approaches the Count’s next birthday - synonymous with his annual Masquerade - and while Asra plans the finishing touches of his party costume, Muriel plans to be scarce.

Leaving Asra to depart alone for the Masquerade that year, same as every one before. 

Alone with his thoughts, hopeful as they might be. In previous years, those thoughts were held in favour of a certain druid he’d been pestering for company. 

This year; his mind keeps drifting… _Is Anri here…?_ He glances all around the artist’s alley as he deliberates over displays. _Which mask will look best in the centre?_

_Would Anri prefer something bold, or something familiar? If it isn’t angled correctly, what if Anri passes over the booth entirely? _

It’s easy to imagine a repeat of last year. Wasting the Masquerade’s opening night, trailing after somebody who likely won’t even remember him. 

His curious little theatre of the mind acts out its newest production of _Asra and the Bad Idea_… He sees himself waiting in his booth year after year, pining for a lost cause. It’s grounding enough that he’s nearly convinced himself to give up the chase, to save himself all the hassle and the heartache, when opportunity saunters right back into his booth.

So deep in the daydream, he misses it completely: the chance to greet Anri by name. One entire year later.

“Hello, again.” Their words nearly drown in a nervous chuckle.

Anri’s face is bare, on full display, a sly smile caught between teeth. With a steadying inhale, they nod once to Asra in greeting.

Asra returns their nod, mind spinning. He sounds dazed when he finally speaks.

“Do you need a mask?”

“Yes!” They swell enthusiastically, releasing the smile they’d been holding back. “I’ve been waiting all year to buy one of these.”

Hands clench at their sides as they drag attention to Asra’s displays. He feels silence blossoming between them, and hastily fills it with the first thing he thinks of.

“Are you dancing this year?”

He’s quite surprised by the tension that flutters across their features at the question, but it quickly fades into hesitation. Then a clear, head-shaking no.

“Oh,” he feels compelled to apologise, but doesn’t. Instead, nerves express a chuckle. “Why not? Did the Count not like the last one?”

Anri sighs, turning a mask over in their hands; carefully candid. 

“He hated it, actually,” Anri slumps with the admission, guilt twitching their lips this way and that. “It’s a shame… Benedikt worked really hard on it… but, um…” they catch them-self, before awkwardly recovering. 

“No. Not dancing this year.”

Asra gets a distinct impression that they’re holding something back. He leans in close, feeling quite conspiratorial. “…because you’re doing something else, instead?”

For a beat, Anri fidgets nervously in place. Then some darkness shades their eyes. They bow forwards to whisper in Asra’s ear.

“You’re a wizard, too, right?” Their breath warms his cheek; his own breath catches in his chest at the intimacy.

“Mm… magician,” though it is essentially the same thing. 

Anri nods and swallows.

“Have you ever opened an Avernian portal?”

Eyes wide, his head shakes.

Anri bites their lower lip, “would you like to?”

Asra’s breath doesn’t rise to reply; he swallows words over and over and stares openly.

Anri laughs nervously, drawing back and shaking their head. “Ah, nevermind. Sorry for spooking you like that, I shouldn’t have-”

“No. No, it’s okay. I… I’m just,” Asra fights down nerves, deliberating over words. “Don’t you need to _kill_ somebody to open that kind of gate?”

Anri nods slowly. “We have a volunteer.”

Asra is too bewildered to know how to respond to that. He nods weakly, frowns, then shakes his head. 

Anri’s precise smile returns with enticing purpose; but it’s their ruby red gaze, full of mystery, that draws him in. 

A menagerie of hollow-eyed animals flank them in the lines of masks. Dark, round pockets of mystery staring alongside Anri, persuading him with their empty depths.

“The volunteer won’t stay dead for long, if that’s what you’re worried about,” they draw back away from him, expression wavering between hesitant and deliberate. “It’s all been handled by professionals…” their eyes widen suddenly. “Oh, silly me. Never even asked your name, did I?” Their laughter echoes in the small tent.

Asra gapes for a moment before recovering. “It’s, um, I’m Asra.”

“Well, Asra,” they pause, savouring the name, “_Asra_, are you interested? You can just watch. It will be worth your time, I promise.”

The smile they flash him then is the only one that’s struck him as truly genuine. 

He returns it candidly. “Sure… It sounds… fun?” It doesn’t really sound like fun, but he is certainly interested. 

_Who would volunteer for a ritual like that?_

While Asra contemplates the motivations behind ritual sacrifice, Anri turns back to the displays. They throw their head back, hair swishing over their shoulder, to hold a simple black cat mask out for Asra’s inspection. 

“This one. You made this yourself, right?”

“I carved it, but my friend painted that one.” His friend who conveniently disappeared at the start of the Masquerade. 

Muriel was probably in his hut now, fussing over Inanna and making the most of his time alone. Even if he’d spent two whole years doing exactly that, he always seemed enamored by a chance to do it again.

“There’s a powerful magical resonance in it,” Anri lifts the mask to their face, inspecting the look in a small smudgy mirror. “Does your friend use enchanted pigment?”

Asra shrugs, “not intentionally?” 

At least, he doesn’t think Muriel knows alchemy like that. While certainly proficient enough in green magic to succeed enchanting pigments; Muriel is really not the experimental sort. And he already has his well-worn comfort zone. 

Perhaps there is simply more to the chosen materials than initially realised…

“What do you feel in it?”

Anri wets their lips in thought, fingertips spreading over the false face. 

“Death.”

Their one word reply might be chilling for somebody ignorant to tarot’s influence. Asra merely quirks an eyebrow. 

“The Arcana?”

He steps closer, following the faint whisper of a voice. 

There isn’t a chance to discern the words before Anri has flung the mask away with panicked haste. They watch with an aloof dignity as it skids across the ground.

Asra’s head tilts accusingly. He steps forward to check on the tossed cat mask as Anri fidgets nervously.

“The Arcana…” Anri repeats it twice, just like with Asra’s name. “Right, think I’ve heard of that… I suppose… there’s something in that mask, but… oh, it’s not enchanted… might be a conduit…” 

Anri trails off, bouncing on their heels. They watch as Asra returns the cat mask to its display. 

He fixes them with an inscrutable expression. Quiet for a long moment before asking, “are you alright?”

The question seems to completely baffle Anri. Who frowns and nods, huffing impatiently. 

A second silence settles between them, which both would later report to be an excruciatingly awkward one.

Asra slowly circles his booth, checking each mask for whispers. Anri subtly attempts to do the same, circling in the opposite direction. They wander behind a make-shift counter.

After a while, Asra tries to break the awkwardity.

“So…” he clears his throat, drawing Anri’s attention. “A cat?” 

He feels tension leak out of the moment, dispersing like a heavy cloud of magic.

“It reminded me of someone,” Anri admits, offering an apologetic smile. “Who you’ll meet, actually, if you come to the ritual. Although… there isn’t any pressure to.” 

Hands are raised, palms out; submissive and pliable. “Really.” Their shoulders arc like rolling hills, dense musculature shifting with every movement. After a heavy sigh, they tack on a hesitant, “sorry. For tossing your mask.”

Asra waves off the apology, mouthing words that struggle to find voice. 

He scans the wall for another mask to offer. Takes comfort in the soothing, sightless animal faces.

Now that he’s listening, soft murmurings emit from more than just the black cat. None sound threatening, exactly; though if he listens closely, he’ll surely hear some threats. 

He lifts his hand to a minimalist arctic fox mask; one of the first he carved that year, thinking of Anri. Fancying himself in a matching golden mask that he didn’t quite finish. As his fingers brush over the carved wooden snout, he hears the familiar voice of the Magician resonate in the back of his mind.

_“Are you surprised, cub?”_ Their voice lilts and lifts into the air, distorting into wind.

It is really not so surprising, once he thinks about it. Reflecting on the creation of his tarot deck, communing with the World around him; even cutting matching lengths of card stock is comparable to blocking out husks of wood. 

Each process bears enough similarities that the only real surprise is how long it took him to realise.

“What about this one?” Anri’s voice is light but hesitant, slowly and gently guiding him back through the pages of reality… then yanks him back by the eardrum, with sudden calamitous shrieking. He believes he picks out the word ‘_snake!_’ between what he can only imagine are foreign curses. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Anri leap away from his satchel in the corner of the room. In which they’d no doubt found the mask they were holding - and now dropping - beside his rowdy little snake familiar’s favourite spot to nap. 

The surprise guest in question coils her pretty lavender body up and around the sturdy set of human-shaped play equipment named ‘Anri’.

Who stumbles frantically throughout, hopping towards the exit. Attempting to fling the snake off their leg.

The sight of it is quite a bit too much for Asra to behold, and he is doubled over with laughter before it occurs to him to _help_. When he finally straightens, they’ve frozen in the doorway with Faust wrapped loosely around their neck. Her tongue flickers happily, tasting their aura. With a heavy, telltale sigh of embarrassment, Anri deflates.

“This is… _your_ snake, isn’t it?”

“She is,” Asra notes reflexively, then nods. “Anri, meet Faust.”

“Hello, little one,” they smile weakly. “You sure carry the spark of chaos within.”

Faust seems to take it as a compliment. She gazes up at them, and both meet matching eyes of red. Anri doesn’t blink.

“Faust. I think we need to give strangers a bit more space in the future, okay?” Asra’s nervous laughter is just charming enough to ease Anri.

They extend a hand to the snake meekly. 

Faust boops their finger with her nose, then wiggles her body.

“_Oh-that-feels-very-weird_,” Anri shivers as Faust’s smooth scales massage their shoulders.

Asra offers a palm to Faust, which she uses to hoist herself along his arm. She soon winds around Asra’s biceps with a befitting familiarity.

Anri sighs, slumping with relief. “She’s cute.”

Faust pokes out her tongue proudly, then wriggles on with a streak of mischief about her. 

She’s dropped to the ground and weaved herself through the fallen mask before either mage can recover. Asra does first. Retrieving the second mask to be unceremoniously thrown aside, inspecting it.

His unfinished fox mask, fancied as part of a matched set. 

That his heart was set on painting the whole thing gold-all-over stalled the poor urchin’s plans, however. So it remained in his bag for months, half-baked and covered in charcoal markings; and now with a chipped left tooth. 

“You… were joking, right?” He lifts the mask, if it can yet be called such, recalling their request. 

Their stifled embarrassment gives him pause. 

“You actually like this one? But it’s not even done yet…”

“I love it,” they affirm shyly.

After all that time carefully displaying his works of art… and so much doubt over which mask, if any, they would like best…

_Best!_ Faust tells him via their silent connection.

“Is that weird?” Anri’s voice is oh so teeny tiny when they speak again, that Asra only hears a breathy unintelligible squeak at first. It takes him a moment to process the actual words.

He tilts his head, shrugs his shoulders, offers them the mask. “I guess not. It’s just… unexpected?”

They hold the untreated wood to their face, turning it this way and that. There is, he notes, a certain raw appeal to the unfinished grain. Against their albino skin, the sun-bleached wood doesn’t even look pale.

“Well, if you want it, you can have it,” he smiles. “It wouldn’t feel right to charge you for it,” he admits. That he would have freely given any mask they chose was beside the point.

“Ah… That’s sweet, but can I buy the black cat, too?” They pluck it back off the wall and very gently rest it on the counter. 

Asra crosses the room, nodding affirmation before he retrieves a small pouch to hold the cat mask, and hands it back. 

At this point in the usual mask sale, he would be rapidly assessing the customer’s apparent wealth and extrapolating a price. It isn’t a very precise business model, sure; but it isn’t supposed to be. He only makes these masks in the first place because he enjoys it. That he can squeeze a little income out of it once a year is just a bonus.

Now, any income might betray his intent: He would rather spend more time with Anri than accept their money.

“Consider it another gift,” he smiles.

Anri snorts. “Will you just let me take anything I throw to the ground?” They laugh, cheerful but hesitant.

“Uh, I mean,” Asra spots it. 

Time to declare his intentions. 

“If there is… anything else in here you _would_ like to take,” he clears his throat poignantly, “you’d only have to say so.”

“Is that _so_?” Anri hums playfully. They lift a suggestive eyebrow, leaning in close. “But you wouldn’t accept _anything_ in return for the pleasure?” 

Asra’s imagination reels, flushing his cheeks pink.

The sight pulls a charming giggle from Anri, who turns their attention to getting their new mask in place. 

After a few adjustments to it made by magic, they pull a ribbon from their hair to thread through it the mask. Asra’s hands rise and fall awkwardly as he deliberates offering assistance.

“Maybe I can show you around the Palace? All the best rooms are _very_ private, but,” Anri tightens the ribbon with a flourish, “I can get you in anywhere. And we have hours to kill before the ritual starts - three after midnight, by the way.” 

With the mask in place, Anri holds out their arm to him. “So, what do you say, Asra? Would you like an escort for the evening?”

As it happens, there was nothing Asra would have liked more. Certainly more than waiting in his booth until sun-set. 

Faust happily slithers up to the task. She is, after all, an excellent clerk. Nobody dares to steal a mask while under her charming watch.

  
\+ ~ + ~ +  


Within hours, Asra’s scope of the Masquerade expands nearly ten-fold. 

Private performances pass by in a blur of energy. He sees features never imagined possible; visits rooms thought to be only rumour. The famed pleasure room, the illicit red room, the magical beast banquets. Rows of targets to test ones marksmanship, mystifying locomotives, and all manner of magicians weaving fineries from thin air. The thrills never end.

Asra barely remembers each activity room and the games within, as something new swiftly follows. So many of the Masquerade’s old classics find new perspective from Anri’s side. They guide him through basement dungeons running underneath the Palace grounds. Secret tunnels mapped for servants. Utilized by the Masquerade’s hosts, performers and professionals to lounge as much as travel.

There was once a time he stalked these halls, as a child. Shortly after his parents disappeared, seeking answers desperately craved.

Now with Anri here to guide him along, he finds more to the Palace than initially thought.

None of the same bustle exists behind the scenes that does on floors open to the public. While the main rooms are typically crammed with sweaty strangers in varying states of intoxication, the hidden walkways between are blessedly quiet. Quiet enough for Asra to hear the resonance of his beating heart. 

Servants and performers scurry between the pair. Some greet Anri with warm wishes as they pass, or invite them both to view their show. Half a dozen promises are made to see all kinds of fascinating acts, but Asra barely retains the information.

All he can think about as he follows Anri around the Palace, to and fro of marvelous things to do and dine upon, is how much he enjoys their touch. How comfortable he feels hooked around their arm. How nice it must feel to hold their broad shoulders, to massage firm thighs and hips, explore ‘round every curve. 

He winds himself up with fantasies. Even as he stands beside Anri, sharing their laughter and meeting their friends. So many of whom dress in fineries only nobility can afford, and speak in carefully educated tones. Accustomed to the extravagance of the Masquerade, none even seem interested in the features that Asra finds so deeply impressive.

He feels adrift amongst luxuries. Harbouring a rocking sensation of impending rejection… as soon as they find out he’s just some cheap urchin with no real place in their life.

He fights to keep his composure, through friendly strangers who all greet him like an old acquaintance. He’s never even met these people before, but they already seem just as tired of him as Muriel was to hear more about Anri. More than thrice this evening he’s heard a mocking _“ooooh, the mystic! Yes, we’ve heard about you!”_ coupled with a knowing pat on his shoulder. 

One of them traps his arm in a firm grip, as if trying to leech the magic from him. A vividly painted hyena mask with shrouded eyes blocks his view. From behind the mask, echoes a high-pitched voice.

“I hear you can dispel magic, hm?”

Asra freezes at the contact, tugging away.

“Not dispelling, Elouan,” Anri answers in his place, calmly helping to pry the hyena-masked woman’s vice-like grip from Asra’s arm. “It was subtler than that…” 

“_Oui, oui, ‘the sight’_,” she releases her grip and sighs. “I understand.” With that, she cycles on, already bored. 

Another instantly fills her place. One of few in attendance without a mask. Cropped brown hair frames a small, bespectacled face. 

This one bypasses Asra entirely, addressing Anri with a stern brow. 

“Kjetil says you have a mask for him?” 

“Oh, yes!” Anri fetches the black cat mask, tilting their head as they hand over the pouch. “Could have got you a mask too, you know.”

The other shrugs, stepping forward to receive it. Asra takes in more of their appearance as they move. The fabric of their clothing is dense but shiny. Unlike any fabric Asra is familiar with.

Strapped around their wrist is another oddity. 

“What… _is_ that?” Asra can’t help blurting out at the sight of the curious wrist-wear.

Anri’s friend rises an eyebrow at him, utterly unimpressed. Their voice stings coldly when they speak, but they do not speak to Asra.

“This the kind of company you’re keeping now, Anri?” 

“Not like you can blame them, Jaehyun. You were rude to Asra first. Besides, people in our time are scarcely even familiar with a wall-mounted watch.”

“Listen to you… Blabbing about _your time_ as if you’re somewhere private.”

“You’re the one wearing a beacon from the future. Stop being a pain,” Anri flaps an irritated palm at Jaehyun. 

Despite the scolding, Jaehyun relaxes somewhat. Their chin tips forward, looking toward Asra without making eye-contact. 

Slivers of deep indigo eyes reflect against Jaehyun’s spectacles as they move.

“You’re Asra, then?”

“That’s me.” Asra extends a hand. “Jaehyun, I take it?” 

“Yes. Consider it taken.” Jaehyun pointedly ignores Asra’s hand, but lifts their arm to show off the curious timepiece strapped around their wrist. “This keeps track of passing seconds and hours for me.”

“Ah, to tell the time?” Not quite so mystic after all.

“Indeed,” Jaehyun drops their arm, scanning the room. “I spy a _disastrous_ combination approaching. Please excuse me.” 

Jaehyun parts company with a shallow bow.

“See you at the ritual,” Anri waves.

Mere seconds later, two very tall figures collide against each of Anri’s flanks. Dark feathers of one costume brush against pale silks of Anri’s, on one side. On the other, teals and browns drape heavily.

“Why hello there, Anri my sweet,” one mocking voice greets.

“A little birdie told us,” a second informs with tempered tone, “that you found your handsome mystic.”

“Yes… Hi, Ilya. Benedikt,” Anri greets the pair with a belaboured sigh. “This is-”

Before Anri can finish, Ilya and Benedikt have slung free arms around Asra. All four crash together into an uncomfortable group hug.

Asra wriggles between the strangers’ grips. _Why do Anri’s friends all need to be so hands-on?_

“_Ohoho,_ can it _really be_?” The first skids away at Asra’s wriggling. Inky black feathers of the man’s costume ruffle with the motion. They blend seamlessly into a hood, which hooks over the corners of a beaked doctor’s mask.

One arm still slung around Anri, the plague doctor stands only a few inches taller than the dancer. They continue glibly, “the _magic mask-maker_? So you _didn’t_ make them up?” 

“Oh, no,” Asra cuts in before anyone else can. “You couldn’t make me up if you tried.”

Anri grins candidly at him. 

“You’re much smaller than I was expecting!” The second mocks, and pats Asra on the head.

“Lay off it, Benny,” Anri tugs Asra aside from Ilya and Benedikt’s reach.

If the first was tall (_and dark_, Asra muses, _and handsome_…) then the second is a giant. Easily a head taller than Ilya, and almost three times his width. His imposing figure is even mildly familiar. Yet difficult to place, behind the human-skull mask perched upon their nose.

Both completely dwarf Asra. As if he needs another thing to feel insecure about…

“Hullo.” The second ducks down to look Asra in the eye, making quite a show of it to emphasize their height difference. They chuckle at the blush creeping up Asra’s cheeks, then squint. “You look familiar, actually.”

“Oh?” Asra shrinks back from the looming figure despite himself. At least his voice doesn’t shy away. “My name’s Asra.” 

“_Wa~oow_, pretty name! It’s native, right?” He offers a hand, splayed fingers waggling. “Oh, and I’m Benedikt. _He-him-his_.”

Asra tries to match the firmness of Benedikt’s hand-shake, but there is little competition left by the man’s grip.

“My creepy cousin,” Anri informs, then tacks on a “_one_ of.”

“Nuh-uh,” Benedikt draws back to his full height, settling his weight on one leg. “_You’re_ the creepy cousin, _cuzzz~_” he slurs, chuckling. “Not _we_.”

Anri snorts at him, punching his shoulder with quite a bit of force. It doesn’t seem to bother Benedikt, though. “Shiloh and Esriel aren’t even here tonight. Face it, Ben; you’re outnumbered by witches.”

“Not with Ilya here!” Benedikt counters. 

Ilya gestures to the four of them, “hey, yeah, we’ve got even teams.”

“You will still lose,” Anri snickers. 

“Only ‘cause you’d cheat,” Ilya counters.

“Me? Never would I ever, Ilya. You know how well-behaved I can be. Haven’t done anything _quite so roguish_ in my whole life as _cheating_,” Anri declares with a wink. 

“That makes two of us.” Asra plays along, batting his lashes oh so innocently.

“See, now?” Anri wraps an arm through his, leaning into him with a delicate smile. “We’re both _far_ too sweet and innocent.”

“So that’s your type,” Ilya mocks. 

Benedikt barks a laugh. “An innocent witch? Don’t think such a thing exists.” 

“Well aren’t you wise, big Benny,” Anri mocks. 

“Wise enough to manage without magic, that’s for sure.”

“But not wise enough to write a poem that people actually like.”

Ilya clears his throat, offing a hand to Asra while the cousins banter.

“_Oh,_ **you!**” Benedikt crushes Anri into a one-armed bear hug. His free hand maliciously ruffles their perfectly beautified silver locks.

“By all _the Saints!_” Anri fussily bats away the ruffling hand. “_Stop i~i~it!_”

Alas, their protest only invites further tousling. Two devolve into a light-hearted slapping battle. 

Asra reaches hesitantly toward them, stepping away from Ilya. The stranger’s proffered hand drops again, unshook.

“Need some help there, Anri?” 

Anri casts him a grateful glance as they twist around, “no help needed.” With that, they slip one hand under Benedikt’s upper arm and pinches hard.

Benedikt yelps and pulls away, granting Anri the opportunity to twist his body down beneath theirs and hold him in a head-lock.

“Between us, I am the reigning champion,” Anri explains, shaking out their hair to mend any damage done by Benedikt’s heavy hand.

Ben throws them off roughly, fighting back upright. 

“I guess our evenly-matched team fight is starting?” Ilya throws up theatric fists and bounces in place with a laugh. “Stick ‘em up!”

Benedikt snorts at him. “Not so fast, Ilya. They could still just be an illusion.”

“Is that what you wish Lucio had been?” Anri returns. Their tone is even, perfectly restrained, yet pink blossoms under their mask.

“_Rude_… but perfectly on the money, yes. Damn, wish he… wait, is he listening?”

“Lucio?” Ilya snorts. “Nah, you’ll be fine. Listening is really not his thing,” he chuckles.

“How unfortunate that Benedikt’s not his thing, either,” Anri challenges with an elbow under the tall man’s ribs. 

“_Hey!_” Benedikt frowns, stricken. “Totally uncalled for. Lucio was _lucky_ to have me,” he preens.

“Why the past tense? His marriage is _wide_ open,” Anri chuckles.

“He does keep an active, um, social life,” Benedikt scowls. “Maybe a little too active…”

“Lucio is basically royalty, after the Satrinava wedding. Of course a crown prince is going to be busy.”

Benedikt rolls his eyes, falling silent. Ilya swoops in. 

“Really, now?” He throws arms wide. “We’re _really_ gonna keep talking about Lucio? On such a _beautiful_ night?”

Anri shrugs. “It is his party.”

“Which people only attend to _forget_ how much we _hate_ him, yeah.”

“True,” Asra laughs, joining in. “but mostly I just attend for the food.”

“It is good food,” Benedikt agrees.

“Okay, great!” Ilya claps his hands together. “Let’s talk about the food, then. That’s better.” 

“Anything’s better,” Benedikt mumbles.

“What do you usually talk about?” Asra inquires of nobody in particular. Benedikt and Anri glance at one another.

Ilya lifts a bemused eyebrow. “Come to think of it, actually, I _do_ enjoy complaining about the Count. It’s like a Vesuvian tradition.”

A round of laughter eases all.

“We can keep talking about magic?” Anri suggests.

“I’d rather play with letter blocks, thanks,” Benedikt deadpans.

“No kidding,” Ilya snorts. “I don’t attend _grown-up_ parties to talk about creepy nonsense. I attend them for… well, you know,” he winks.

“Oh, Ilya,” Anri coos. “You know the wall of sensation is sustained by magic, right?”

Ilya freezes.

“_Gross_,” Benedikt intones with a mocking laugh.

Asra wets his lips, feeling bold. “Well, only some magic is ‘grosse’… plenty of it’s _subtle_~” 

He waggles his fingers, uncertain if the reference will land but dearly hoping… then Anri and Benedikt laugh, ringing a harmony, and to Asra it sounds a little bit like home.

“I don’t get it,” Ilya mumbles to the side.

“Oh, yes,” Anri wrinkles their nose at him. “You two should learn a few wards before you get done in by a curse. Come on, Benny. Didn’t your mother ever teach you protective charms?”

Benedikt quirks a brow, clearly taken aback but dubiously offended. “Wow, schooling the shop boy,” he feigns admiration, “yeah well, I walked right into that…” He sighs and bows his head in a spontaneous farewell. “And now, I’ll be walking right back out of it,” he darts away, falling into step with a passing attendee. “’Later!”

“Well, that was…” Asra begins optimistically, then all faith peters out, “something?”

Ilya chuckles softly, recalling some joke Asra isn’t privy to. “**That** was Benedikt.” 

Anri shifts in place, fingers toying nervously at waist-length hair, “but you don’t want to talk about my family, do you?” They wince. “_I’d_ rather hear about you…”

“Oh, me too!” Ilya chimes nervously. “So, you’re from Vesuvia?”

“Born and raised,” Asra smiles.

“May I… uh,” Ilya steps up, clears his throat dramatically, and dips into a theatrical bow. Far lower than reasonable. 

“.ألسّلام عليكم” <“Peace be unto you.”> 

Asra blinks blankly for a moment, not quite registering the traditional greeting for what it is.

Apparently, he looks distinctly like the _proud Vesuvian native_. He cannot fathom whether there is any meaning to be gleaned from the assumption. Correct, though it be.

“,وعليكم السّلام” _<“And peace be upon you,”>_ he returns. 

Ilya wobbles, yet manages to right himself without incident. His grin is ear-splitting. 

“Do you mind if I ask,” Ilya clenches a fist, “how’s my pronunciation?”

“Uh… it’s fine?”

“I think that _bow_ was actually more impressive,” Anri snickers. “You sure you don’t wanna take on more dance numbers with the troupe?”

“Oh, Nah, nuh-uh. Nope, no thank you, and negative! Acting is for the _stage_. **Dancing** is for _parties_!” Ilya laughs heartily.

“Speaking of!” Anri claps their hands together. “The band room is connected to an improvised ballroom, this year!”

“Does that mean… Um. Would you like to go dancing?” Asra’s hopeful charm seemingly grates at Ilya's. 

“Oh, yeah? You also like to dance?” Ilya lifts an eyebrow at the couple. Stormy grey eyes flick between but go dismissed.

“Tell me more about yourself,” Anri encourages.

Asra shrugs, “there may not be that much to tell… actually, Benedikt had me pegged: I’m a magician. I make masks…”

“You make _gorgeous_ masks, don’t sell yourself short,” Anri brushes a nervous hand to his arm, then pulls back. “You’re an artist! You even dress like one. It’s clear that you have an exquisite eye for aesthetic. Developing that would have taken a lot of effort, and it shows.”

“Oh… well, thanks…” Asra tries to manage a better response, anything at all, but only gapes wordlessly. He’d worked himself up into such a dizzying infatuation that all his talent just seems trivial, now.

Meanwhile, Ilya feels himself fade into the background.

“You are most welcome… take pride in it, Asra. Enchanting is a complicated art. How did you learn it, may I ask?”

From a well-dressed, bipedal fox who speaks in his mind… can he really say that, though? Even if he can, he doesn’t.

“Slowly… mostly… I dunno, it was organic… actually though, I think I’m more inclined to elemental and kinetic magic. Maybe I learned enchantment basics from my parents, but…” Asra winces, “well, that’s a different bag of worms, entirely.”

A shrill voice interrupts their conversation.

“An entire _bag_ of worms?” As a body does indeed worm its way between the couple. 

“Praetor?” Anri’s surprise is dulled by annoyance. 

Praetor Vlastomil ignores them; beady little eyes gaze longingly into Asra’s. “Where is the bag of worms?” He begs, tone delirious with anticipation.

Ilya picks that moment to slip away.

Asra attempts (unsuccessfully) to restrain nervous laughter. Anri purses their lips.

“You shall find the bag of worms in… the, um,” Anri hesitates, catching Asra’s eye before continuing on with confidence. “In the worm room.”

“Worm! Room!” Vlastomil’s eyes glaze over with… joy? Pride? It’s difficult to tell in one so wormy. “Oh, Lucio really _does_ care!” Vlastomil dabs at his eyes. “Yes, yes, where shall I find this delightful room? In which corner of the estate?”

“_Huhhhh?_ The basement?”

Vlastomil hurries on without another word (as for whether he’s with or without any worms? The answer may shock you.)

Once Asra’s sure the Praetor is out of earshot, he leans toward Anri to mutter softly in their ear.

“Honestly, it’s bold of him to assume that _he’s_ not the bag of worms.” Tension shatters.

Anri cackles heartily, no longer restrained, and Asra joins them. Soon they’re both doubled over with tears in their eyes, ushering each other out of the room lest they draw a crowd.

The sudden shameless display of alacrity disperses any hesitation between them. From then on, every moment shared beckons them toward ecstasy.

With every private whisper, every playful touch, they step further from the planet. 

It is strange for Asra to feel comfortable in the world of fame and riches. Alongside Anri, he finds it becomes a world of bliss, both private and widely publicized. A comfort he wants to nurture in peaceful solitude, but a comfort he wants to share with every idle stranger. His newfound sense of belonging. This desire to speak his mind, to know how much they agreed with, and what might bring them joy.

“Is it my turn now?” Asra laughs, “because your magic is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. Watching you dance last year was _so inspiring!_”

The sudden compliment lifts Anri’s brows far above their widening eyes. After a careful moment of consideration, they accept; relaxing ever so slightly. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“I really mean it!” Asra draws closer. ”I almost wanted to try it myself.”

Anri tries and fails to hide a blush. “If you really want to, I could teach you? Jaehyun has all the equipment here somewhere.”

“How practical,” Asra laughs. “It all looked so complicated, though.”

“Probably just because of my extra effects. The magic lights. To make it look… more dynamic.”

“Well, they sure work! I’m _still_ impressed, thinking about it. I’ve never seen anyone cast while exerting their body like that.” He offers his best charming smile. “You must be _extraordinarily_ strong…”

They are, he later confirms, with his back against the pleasure room’s famous ‘_wall of sensation_’; at least strong enough to support him on their shoulders and satisfy him at the same time. Together they climb a staircase to the heavens, muscles flexed in every step. Up to the worlds which dreams are made of, where bliss can be shared for a single night amongst weary hundreds.

“_Fuck_, Anri, that feels so good.”

Perhaps his very body is the stair, the way, and the heavens all together. 

He certainly thinks as much of Anri’s body, as it unwinds from his and gently sets him back down. 

_Is it my turn now...?_ He thinks… he wants to take Anri this high. 

“Feeling better?” Anri’s laugh is so honest, so genuine, so kind, that it renders Asra speechless. 

_Naturally, he_ feels good. Well-spent and satisfied, but nothing has been done for Anri’s satisfaction and when they stand him upright it seems to be the furthest thing from their mind. _Is this the end, then? Is it all over now?_

Does he even want more? Is he feeling better? _What is_ he feeling?

Perhaps he thought the climax might cool him down a little. Alas, it only fans flames of infatuation. 

_Feeling better…_ their voice echoes in his reforming mind. He manages a blissful hum of agreement but cannot expel thoughts of Anri’s pleasure from his mind. He still feels adrift among stardust.

“Are you hungry?” Anri’s voice simultaneously lifts him to the heavens and brings him back to earth. “Oh, have you ever tried the rainbow cake?”

Asra shrugs off lingering troubles. He searches the room, finding his voice around the same time he finds his clothes. 

“Ah… I’m always so full by the time I find the rainbow room. After all those pastries… I just forget to leave space for dessert.”

“You should _definitely_ try it, come on, come on~” 

He barely has the time to re-adjust his clothes before Anri is pulling him out of the room and onward to their next destination. 

Their laughter rings off of the walls, brightening corridors as they rush him into a room packed wall-to-wall with colourful cakes.

“But I’m not hungry…?”

They dismiss his protest with a wave of their hand. “You don’t need to be hungry to eat cake!”

“Eating… when you’re not hungry?” Asra ponders the luxury. “How thrilling.”

A nearby snort of derision grabs his attention.

“I can think of _hundreds_ of things more thrilling,” the voice mocks. When Asra turns to find a speaker, he comes face to face with the Count of Vesuvia himself. 

Beside him, in delicate fineries so beautiful Asra stalls with mouth agape, stands a woman who can only be the recently sworn in Countess of Vesuvia. 

“That does sound a little dry,” she agrees evenly. Even Countess Nadia’s voice embodies regal distinction.

“Most lovely to see you, Your Excellencies,” Anri bends into a graceful curtsy. “The year’s Masquerade is as stunning a success as we all expected.”

“Oh _please_, Anri, shut it and get in here,” Lucio pulls them close, to greet one other with a peck on both cheeks. 

“Congratulations on surviving another year,” Anri remarks once they part. 

“At least until 3,” Nadia notes serenely. “We may yet bear the shortest political marriage of an age.” 

“Ever the pessimist, Noddy,” Lucio tuts. “I swear though if Kjetil _does_ fuck this up, I’m gonna haunt you all _so_ bad.”

Anri laughs through their words, “_bad_ as in ‘_you’ll suck at it_’, maybe.”

“Like a troublesome poltergeist breaking all the fixtures,” Nadia agrees with a belaboured sigh. 

“_What!?_” Lucio guffaws. “I would be _so_ scary as a ghost! All _glowing red eyes_ and even _more _ripped than I am now… Slamming people into walls with my _massive muscles_ and throwing them over balconies or _tearing them up_ with my _huge sharp claws! Arrrghhh!_” He mimes three claws on both hands, slashing Anri up and down their body. “There’d be nothing left of your clothes except conveniently decent scraps for ya’ _bits_.” 

Lucio glances down, taking in Anri's outfit as he speaks. "You're a vision in these silks, by the way. You've outdone yourself."

Anri waves off the compliment. "It's all Nadia."

“Credit where it’s due, please,” Nadia invites praise with beckoning fingers.

Asra is the first to chime in.

“The combination of Anri’s long hair with those fabrics is... Breathtakingly elegant. I don’t know if this is too bold but,” Asra feels himself blushing as he speaks. “Your frame holds the draping like a marble statue of an Arkadian goddex.”

Anri’s stark white skin flushes pink as Asra speaks. Lucio groans and steps away.

“Well,” Nadia sniffs politely, “I was rather hoping to be complimented on my own wardrobe, but a designer never dismisses praise. So, thank you…” A mildly perturbed expression crosses Nadia’s features. So quickly Asra isn’t even sure he really saw it. “Stranger,” Nadia concludes.

“Asra,” he offers, then hastily rephrases. “My name is Asra, milady, Countess… Your Highness.”

Lucio turns to him in alarm, surprise lifting his sharp features.

Nadia’s lips quirk just slightly. “What a long name you have, Asra-milady-Countess. Is that what your parents named you?”

Asra can’t help but laugh. 

“Just ‘Asra’?” Lucio presses, “no family name to impress us with?” 

Asra’s eyes narrow. Suspicions dance just beneath the surface. 

If he admits to a family name of Alnazar, will Lucio recognize it? Are Salim and Aisha so familiar to the tyrant Count that he once learned the name of their offspring? 

“An answer isn’t _actually_ required,” Anri arbitrates after a moment of silence. 

Asra runs a thoughtful tongue over his upper teeth, forcing himself to relax. He shrugs. In a manner, hopefully, candid.

“Does ‘Magician’ count as a family name?” He jests.

“So you’re nobody,” Lucio snorts. “Oh!” Quick as a whip, his head spins back toward Anri with a winning smile. 

“Speaking of _cute new **pets**_,” he laughs at his own tasteless joke as Anri smiles thinly, casting Asra an apologetic glance. “I’ve got these _gorgeous_ new puppies, _so cute!_ Beautiful white fur… they remind me so much of you! But edgier than your look, for sure. With those fangs- _which_ reminds me! Would you let me drill your teeth?” Lucio flourishes suddenly, taking both of Anri’s hands in his own and pulling them close. 

“I thought you’d look _divine_ \- like the _angel you so definitely are_ \- with sharp fangs, right? Then I met this _weirdo_ from Drakr who shaved all her teeth to points so she could bite out the throats of her enemies if they ever pinned her… thought it could be useful in a pinch, y’know, if one of ya’ clients ever gets_ a bit too mighty_ on you,” the Count speaks so quickly, that Asra tunes out half of it.

Anri, on the other hand, takes it all in stride. “Sure. That sounds really cool, actually,” they nod. 

Asra can barely believe it once he catches up.

“You’d let him… _drill_? Your… teeth?” Asra stammers out the words as he manages to wrap his head around the idea.

Nadia catches his gaze with a steely expression. She gives no reaction, but calmly observes.

“Well,” Anri lifts a hand to their chin, thinking for a moment, “would _you_ actually be the one drilling, Lucio? It’s true you’ve a steady hand and all, but I’d rather someone who’s practiced.”

“Valdemar could prob’ly do it,” Lucio shrugs. “I only thought as far as asking you first, we can sort out the details later. Anyway, you’re not planning to drag _this_ thing around with you all night, are you?” He waves a hand toward Asra. “Haven’t you had your fill yet? They’re not even paying you.”

Anri rolls their eyes. “That’s a bit blunt, mi’lord.”

“I could _be_ blunter: Have you not fucked them yet?”

“_Ugh_…” Anri catches Asra’s gaze, “would you like to chime in here, or shall I?” They smile sweetly. Too sweetly for the situation.

Asra can’t keep his composure nearly so well. The warmth in his cheeks burns so hot that he can can almost see the red himself. It wasn’t enough just to be a _damn twitter-pated fool_? Now his infatuation has to be _this closely scrutinized_ by the city-state’s _murderous figurehead_?

Asra shakes his head. He doesn’t think he can manage anything more.

“I might even be so inclined as to _chime in_ on your behalf, too,” Nadia intervenes. “Since I can boldly state that _everybody should mind_ their _own_.…” the Countess pauses for a beat, “_fucking_ business.”

Asra snorts. Loudly, and uncannily like a wandering beast.

The sound just _burst_ out, he swears.

To his side, Anri clears their throat politely. “The wall has already claimed her victory.” How delicate.

“_Ahhh, hah. Well_ o’course they’re still hanging ‘round,” Lucio sneers. “They're probably just waiting for their next round on the wall. There’s a reason she’s famous, ya’ know?” 

When Anri doesn’t laugh, Lucio waves them off. 

“Well whatever, don’t be late to kill me, alright? Kjetil says starting on time is _really important_ or something.”

“We _won’t_ be, Count Lucio. Now let us finish our date, please.” They shoo him away calmly.

“You know, Kjetil is not the only one who says that,” Nadia mutters to the Count as the pair depart.

Asra waits for Lucio’s stomping footsteps to fall away. The man was quite a bother, Asra had always thought that, but what Anri said is too distracting to care much about anything else.

His voice is breathy, downright _embarrassing_, when he speaks up.

“Date?”

Anri startles. “Ah, yes? What did you think this was?” Their hand lifts to scratch behind their neck.

What did he think… was this not some elaborate daydream? A story he wrote just to ease his loneliness?

No, of course this was a date. Of course it is.

“A thrilling first date,” he concludes. “One I’ll never forget.”  
  


\+ ~ + ~ +

  
  
The Count’s birthday only lasts one day a year.

The Masquerade which represents it, however, starts with planning on Day 1 and ends well after midnight on Day 365.

Lucio has managed to fool the entire court into fussing over him all year, every year; all focus poured into celebrating his very existence. At all times.

The more of the Masquerade that Asra sees, the more it convinces him that he’s absolutely _correct_ in thinking as much. Listening tonight only confirms the growing suspicion: Count Lucio is a fool. Little more than a court jester who’d donned the wrong hat and tricked a pity of tired minds into dancing him with, forever. But everybody gladly dances along- it seems, they _love_ it, living in his limelight. Hanging on for words of approval, encouraging his every whim.

Even Anri soaks it up, listening to the man endlessly voice every inane little thought. They keep up with it all, though he speaks so quickly and speeds through several topics within a moment. Anri listens, engages, and prompts.

Asra, meanwhile, prefers the quiet harbour of a daydream over listening while the Count prattles on and on. And on.

And on.

About this or that or the other fancy thing distracting him. Oh, the whimsies of court, some perceived slight he can never let go, and more than a dozen complaints.

“I’m just trying to make sure that everything is _perfect_! Who _else_ is going to pay attention to it, if it’s not me.” 

But of course! Surely Count Lucio is the one and only man in the _whole wide world_ to think about these things, Asra’s internal bitterness responds. 

“I have to point it out,_ that’s_ my job! _A good leader_, like myself, _is always ready_ to _improve_ his _environment_! I’m just so busy thinking up innovations while everyone just wastes time on boring stuff… _Honestly_, why does someone as great as me have to do so much just to get some recognition?”

And on, and on he rambles.

Asra tunes it all back out, paying careful attention to the route Anri guides them along.

They pass beside deep pits in the ground, careful to avoid the clutter of equipment; tools for twisting a perfectly good forest clearing into _the Count’s rightful property_. Whatever that means. Proclaimed ownership over wilderness… destroying the landscape just to declare his presence. A truly mystifying urge, in Asra’s opinion.

Anri said that the ritual would take place in “the gardens” but Asra would hesitate to call this expanse of dirt, littered with steel markers and mounds of tiny pebbles, _a garden_. It more closely resembles a construction site.

When Asra comments on that, however, it is met by Lucio’s harsh and mocking laughter.

“Of course it’s still under construction, _everybody knows_ that liminal spaces like this are best for um, resonating all the, the magic… that we are doing... here, tonight.” Lucio clears his throat, apparently under the impression his _obvious and expansive knowledge_ is convincing. “You’re not a very good magician, then, are you?”

Apparently he is even waiting for Asra to snap up the scattered bait. Asra feels a tiny rush in denying it.

“Well fine, I can just ignore you too,” Lucio huffs.

Anri glances at them both over their shoulder.

“We’re here,” they note.

_Here_ turns out to be nothing special. It is, precisely, a construction site. The only notable difference to the rest of the patches of dirt is a ring of mirrors, and a group of strangers. Each one exquisitely dressed. _All except me,_ Asra worries.

“Jaehyun!” Lucio bounds over to a familiar figure.

“Good evening, milord.”

“Did you bring your dog?” Lucio bounces on his heels in excitement, warranting a head-shaking laugh from Jaehyun.

“Not to open a gateway to the underworld, milord, **no**.”

Asra moves toward Anri, falling into place by their side. In such an unfamiliar setting, it’s the only place he feels at ease. Though, for all he knows, he’s just been led to his own slaughter by a very enticing demon.

He catches Anri’s gaze, fairly certain his fears are clearly writ upon his face. Anri smiles sweetly down at him.

“You’re scared?”

Asra nods.

“Perfectly understandable. Logical, even! Hold onto it.” Their smile wavers; no longer entirely sweet, but not exactly threatening. “Honestly, this might get a little bit dangerous… not life-threatening dangerous or anything, well not for you, but it might be overwhelming, psychologically. So… tread carefully and try not to doubt.” Anri pauses, reconsidering their words. “Sorry… am I just psyching you out with this?”

Asra nods again, slower. “A little bit.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m too giddy,” they laugh. “Just can’t wait for you to see my uncle Kjetil in the zone… Him, there.” Anri points to a far corner.

Asra follows the direction, to see a figure crouched at a distance. So under-dressed compared to the others, wearing only a scarf and calf-length trousers. Set apart from the others, they hold a lit roll of paper between lips. The burning illuminates brown cheeks and specks their deep blue eyes with a flickering light. One hand lifts to pluck the rolled paper from their mouth, following a cloud of smoke. From their other hand hangs a very familiar black cat mask. 

“That is Kjetil. You won’t find a greater necromancer on any plane in the multi-verse.”

Asra observes curiously, too anxious to say anything.

“He’ll be the one conducting the ritual tonight, but I’ll have to explain it as he goes. Otherwise all these guests will probably… well, fuck it up, to use his words. I wish I could stay with you, but you’ll be fine in the outer circle. Just relax and watch, okay?”

“Did you say… multi-verse?” Asra muses after a moment.

“Yes. Oh, don’t worry, we’re all native to this plane.” Anri smiles reassuringly. 

“Sure,” Asra chuckles. “Me too, I think?” A shrug. “You’re not native to Vesuvia though, are you?” 

“No,” Anri confirms, but doesn’t elaborate. “Have you lived your whole life in Vesuvia?”

“Yeah…” Asra sighs. “I’m not here when I’m traveling, of course, but otherwise yeah. I have… um, so, how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, no. I don’t actually live here in Vesuvia.”

“No? Where are you from?” 

Anri hesitates. “You won’t have heard of it…”

“Try me,” Asra challenges with a giggle.

“It doesn’t even really… have a name in Lorim… A community… farm, home… South and West along the Golden Trade Route.”

“Oh, really? You’re from the country? I wouldn’t have thought…” 

“Uh… You don’t mean something by that, right?” Anri chuckles, but waves off an answer. Their hand falls to a tuft of hair, toying with it awkwardly. “A lot of my time is spent milking my parent’s goats, if I’m being honest. I’m not exactly glamorous…” 

Asra smiles warmly, unexpectedly refreshed by the information. A farmhand… that explains the muscles.

“So where did you learn to dance and… whatever you call that, doing all that, with the silks, from the ceiling?”

“The aerial acrobatics, yes. Jaehyun introduced me to the world of technology-assisted entertainment and performance art… oh, four, or five years ago now? Dancing, though. Dancing has always been in my blood.”

“You did look like a natural… I just credited that to practice, though.”

“Practice, also,” Anri nods solemnly. “One… _must_ practice.”

Their seriousness gives him pause. “Yes…” 

“Do you also believe that?” Anri’s voice is smaller than usual as they ask. 

Asra considers. Quite often, he meets with flawless success upon his very first attempt. As if an instinctual message from mind to body relays the perfect execution. But only for that first try. 

Each further attempt, he finds, becomes more difficult. He cannot focus, cannot fathom how he even managed one success at all. It sends him backwards faster. 

Not to say it’s like that for everyone... two crimson eyes bely how dear they regard this belief. They watch for Asra’s reaction with intensity.

“I… don’t know,” he admits.

“Fair enough.” Anri glances away, then back with a poised smile.

The vivid red of their eyes seemingly softens to magenta… but Asra is sure it must be the light.

“I should go check in with Kjetil…”

Anri teeters in place, but doesn’t leave. They scan the assembly with a hardening expression. Asra follows their gaze, taking in the scene.

He recognizes some of those gathered. Vlastomil, supposedly without a worm. The other Courtiers. Anri’s friends, Jaehyun and Elouan. Behind them, to Asra’s surprise, is one of the owners of the magic shop by the marketplace. _What’s her name…?_

Only the name of her shop comes to mind: _Serpens Caducetorium_. He’s only been inside once or twice, for curiosity’s sake. Her garden alcove, on the other hand, he has grown to consider a valuable business hub. 

Well, he and every other fortune teller in Vesuvia. He wouldn’t be surprised if the populous thinks the space is a public park, for all the traffic it gets. Which only serves as testament to the owner’s earnest generosity.

She glances over now, face breaking into a warm smile, and approaches. When she gets closer, however; it becomes clear that she’s smiling at Anri as they greet one another.

“Anri, darling~!”

“Auntie Ester!”

They pull each other into a kind embrace. Anri gestures to Asra, “allow me to introduce-”

“Asra! My little magician!” Ester claps her hands together and chuckles. “What a small world this is,” she opens her arms wide in offer of a hug.

Asra steps into it awkwardly, unaccustomed to such fondness.

“You two know each other?” Anri’s lips round in surprise. Two long front teeth peek out. 

“Kind of,” Asra shrugs.

“Yes!” Ester confirms, giving Asra a delighted squeeze. “They set up a fortune-telling booth in the alcove behind the shop sometimes. It’s a pity they can’t bring it indoors. Although we hardly have the same customers,” Ester draws back and sighs. “Kjetil did say you were bringing someone but I didn’t expect to see this little ragamuffin here, I’ll tell you that much… was it _wise_ to bring such an innocent?”

“I’m not that innocent,” Asra doesn’t mean it to sound as defensive as it spills out.

Ester laughs heartily, “of course not, sweetheart, I’m sorry if I offended you.”

Asra shakes his head, more embarrassed by Ester’s sincerity than anything else.

“We need a force of innocence to balance the ritual, Auntie,” Anri’s voice is steely serious; almost chilling.

He isn’t sure what stands out more. That his innocence appears to be a measurably _good_ thing. Or that he’s amongst those so notably lacking in such regard.

Ester frowns, opening her mouth to reply, then thinking better of it. She turns her head to Asra instead, addressing him curtly.

“Do not stop for anyone or anything you see in there, Magician. Denizens of other realms suffer just the same as those in this one, and it will feel natural to extend yourself to them, but **do not**. I really mean this, for your protection: Do not try to help any lost souls you meet tonight.”

Asra nods slowly, processing. “I won’t,” he agrees, despite wavering trust in the warning itself.

“We’ll see,” Ester purses her lips.

There is clearly more she wants to say, but holds her tongue over further concerns.

“So,” Asra clears his throat, “you and Kjetil… are Anri’s aunt and uncle?”

Ester blinks wide blue eyes at Asra, then narrows them at Anri. 

They glance away sheepishly. Asra shuffles into Anri’s side, ready to offer support.

“That’s my cue to leave,” Ester spins on her heels, and stalks away.

“They share a common bloodline, yes,” Anri confirms, voice low.

“Wait… they’re married and they share…” Asra shudders at the thought.

“What!?” Anri startles. “No! Gross! Not _married! Just_ brother and sister.”

“Oh! Heh, right... Thank god I just misunderstood. I’m sorry,” Asra wouldn’t be surprised if even his aura is blushing. He doesn’t think himself a tactless person - but sometimes his nerves get the better of him, stringing out his comprehension.

“Which God?” Anri sniffles with amusement, leaning playfully into his shoulder momentarily. “I understand you, though, Asra,” they step back away. 

Asra impulsively follows, craving the intimacy. He cannot help it, after hearing something so sweet. 

“Or... Why you misunderstand. Isn’t is strange that Lorim doesn’t have separate words for different sides of the family?”

“I do actually find that strange, honestly. How few family words there are in Lorim at all.”

“How lovely, we agree!” Anri beams. “It’s like they do not value family… to have so little language for it.”

“So… You really value family, then?” Asra imagines he has a hopeless, dopey smile upon his face. 

Anri shrugs, teetering in place. They glance back to Kjetil; still smoking. He’s rested the black cat mask down on a thick black robe rumpled beneath him, watching everyone intensely.

“I value those who prove themselves _valuable_,” Anri speaks carefully. Their gaze fixes on Kjetil. “But not family for the _sake_ of family. That expects too much.”

“You don’t have a good relationship with your family?”

Anri’s jaw clenches at the question. They give a shrug, sparing the quickest glance possible. “Define ‘good’?” They chuckle.

“Um…”

“Don’t, actually. I don’t want to know… your definition of goodness.”

“Oh…”

“How about you, Asra? How much do you value family?”

“That’s… difficult to describe, when you don’t have one anymore.”

Finally, Anri’s gaze turns back to Asra. They study his expression, but avoid eye contact.

“My condolences…” 

“It’s fine. It’s been _years_.” Asra wets his lips, trying to meet Anri’s eyes. “Right now, I guess. I’m just… searching for a new family, you know?”

Anri stares at him, inexpressive.

He clears his throat. “Well, um, they taught me magic. My parents, they did… uh, I… just think of them whenever I think about magic.”

“I see…”

“But you didn’t learn from your parents, did you? Magic… that is?”

“Actually,” Anri swallows, “In a way. I did.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Family, perhaps, holds the answers to one’s magical ability… I never considered that before.” 

Anri seems to dissociate from the present. Their eyes aglaze with distant thoughts, but they return to attention when Asra speaks again.

“Do you think it’s the same for Kjetil and Ester? Do their parents hold answers to their abilities?”

Anri exhales heavily, uncertainty clear in their eyes. “I… suppose,” they meet his eyes with a sudden intensity. “I shall be the one to warn you, Asra. Listen… I know you mean well, but… We don’t really talk about Kjetil’s parents…” They frown at him, as if expecting a mocking dismissal. 

When Asra emulates their frown, they nod to themself and continue. “Listen. You can talk to him about anything else. Everything and anything at all, he knows so much, he can make fun with any topic; you just need to be patient. Not pushy. Put out the idea, and he’ll snap it up in a second. Make out like you’re seeking something specific, though, and he’ll just get suspicious, so… Wait. This too much, isn’t it? Sorry. I’m… nervous. Um, sorry,” they bite their lip, brows creasing with restrained embarrassment.

“It’s fine,” Asra assures, but his voice is wiry and thin.

Anri falls silent, leaving Asra to settle into his role as the quiet supporter; the observer.

He runs a head-count to calm himself.

Two courtiers in heavy black robes, a third in vibrant red. Their fourth actually dares to dress fashionably, but the fifth loiters in skin-tight surgery attire with eerie stillness.

The Countess makes six. She also cuts a far more flattering figure than the previous five. Her husband might as well be tucked beneath her arm, in seventh place.

Eighth and Ninth wave to Anri - that hyena woman and the time-traveler. Ester joins them as tenth. Kjetil and Anri brings up the number by two.

Twelve others gathered to perform a ritual. Plus himself, totals thirteen individuals.

When he counts the number of mirrors, arranged in a ring around the space, Asra arrives at the same number: Thirteen. He recognizes the mirrors’ distinct curves, and memory provides an answer.

“Are those the same mirrors from your performance, last year?”

Anri’s eyes widen, “you… are… the most perceptive person I’ve ever met. Or should I say ‘sensitive’?”

Asra laughs. At least they didn’t say _nosy_. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Yes,” Anri shakes their head despite the affirmative, “any reflection would do but these mirrors… hm, they’re special.”

“Special?”

“It’s a long story… Kjetil tells it better than I, honestly; some of the details still confound me a little. I understand that jet stone can be polished to a reflective sheen, like many metals, but the way Kjetil explains how the material was acquired and the process of creating it… I cannot accurately relay. Something about leylines?” They swoop a palm over their forehead, just barely avoiding the fox mask. “It all goes way over my head.”

“Interesting… I don’t know that much about leyline stones, either, but I do know my magic responds best to bodies of water. Reflections on the surface, especially…”

“Oh!” They rear back, impressed and stunned, “I never considered using _water_ before? That’s _so_… natural. And resourceful.” Anri wets their lips, then they press together in deep thought. “But how do you plan anything around that, though?”

“Plan…?” Asra frowns. “Why would you need to plan out magic? It’s magic!” He tries to lift the mood with a delicate chuckle, but it rings a little hollow in the darkness. “It sweeps you up in great currents of energy. The _plan is_ to _go with the flow~_”

“Well, that explains why you’re still here,” Anri snorts. Then quickly hurries on. “So, what… do you just happen across a reflective pool and… make something up?”

“I… feel it… You don’t?” He _tsks_ in the place of an eloquent explanation.

“I don’t ‘go’ with ‘_the flow_’?” Anri quirks an eyebrow, perhaps assessing whether or not Asra is playing games with them. “No. I study the form, practice its steps, and assert my will over reality. It’s not about my _feelings_…”

Asra winces. His magic is _entirely_ about feelings… 

Perhaps the moment of inexorable rejection is at hand, then. Anri will learn that he has no formal education, doesn’t grasp the impartial progress of nobility, and conclude the dreaded truth: that he has no place in their life. Perhaps for the best. 

He shrugs and swallows. _Studying, asserting, practicing… feeling? What makes them all so different, anyway?_

“Regardless to the nuances of casting,” Anri picks back up delicately, a tilt of their head implying either pity or confusion, “this ritual will overwhelm you if you feel it… too readily. I don’t really know how to give advice here… although, you may not need advice.” Anri’s demeanor ripples through multiple forms of body language as they sway closer and further away from him. “Do you?”

Asra shrugs again, less enthusiastically. “Why don’t you just tell me what we’ll be doing?”

“Of course. My apologies.” Anri takes a moment to consider. “We’re just opening a door. We’ll guide Lucio through it, and back. You’ll watch. Then we’ll close the door behind us. Does that make sense?”

Asra’s next shrug is his least enthusiastic yet. It only even lifts one shoulder.

Another of those gathered snatches their attention.

“When are we starting!? I wanna see _BLOOD_!” The last word is shouted with an almost sensual passion.

“Quietly, Vulgora,” a courtier in heavy black robes squeaks. “When has Lucio ever disappointed?”

Vulgora cackles madly, “what, _Voltsie_? You wan’ a _list_ of all the times this beetle’s disappointed us or something? We’re already late to start this thing, you know I don’t have time to list them all,” their words roll with amusement.

“But it’s the _mancies_, ‘Gora. We can’t expect to understand-”

“Oh **can’t we**?” Pontifex Vulgora clenches their fists tight, then un-clenches them. Their impatience must wear upon the others.

Elouan groans. “It is a ‘_manse_’, Procurator. Assuming it has structure. Else, it is ‘_demesne_’.” 

“Des…men…mend…”

"Ne te fais pas mal, cherie." _<“Don’t hurt yourself, dear.”>_

“Volta?” The Count’s Consul chimes in. “The only one you shouldn’t expect to understand all of this is _Lucio_.”

“Not you _too_, Valerius,” Volta whines. “Please… Have faith?”

The Consul laughs bitterly. “If I had any faith to begin with, I wouldn’t need to pass through the afterlife to find some.”

While they natter, Kjetil nods to himself and stamps out the burning paper in cool dirt. He pulls a knife from his belt as he stands, striding toward the group with an aloof grace.

“Oh, we’re starting now.” Anri snaps to attention. “Circle time, people!” 

There is a moment of confusion as everybody scrambles into place. 

Asra feels himself guided by the wrist to stand with other guests in a loose circle. Anri gives his arm an encouraging squeeze, then joins Kjetil and Lucio in the center of the gathering.

Anri had called them the ‘outer’ ring, but they are still within the circle of mirrors. He’s most grateful for them now, being able to watch the preparations passively through reflections.

Without seeing the real thing just beside, it almost feels as though he isn’t really here… about to open a portal to the underworld with an assortment of politicians and strangers… The reality of the situation taunts him, too restlessly to sink in.

Kjetil beckons toward the sky, the earth, the universe around them all, calling out.

“Gagatai, curator of the silent dead; please grant sanctuary to each lingering land-wight.” He continues, “or accept my eternal vessel as their temporary nome. Meet the mind within my own and merge our energies to forge a fresh perception.”

He drags the point of the knife down his index finger, through his palm. Fresh blood spills. Anri observes with stony reservation. Asra still doesn’t dare watch the reality, but through mirrors.

“Thank you, Gagatai; Curator, Defender, Sanctifier of life, Thank you for your will to welcome, to empower, and to outlast this body. You will forever hold my gratitude.”

As fresh blood gathers down the blade, Kjetil nods once to Anri. They turn in place to address the circle.

“As you might already know,” their voice rings clear and even, “arranging ourselves in a circle like this represents our message in this physical realm. It delivers the message… it also is, itself, the message. Not unlike a piece of parchment which there-upon we write a letter.”

Kjetil approaches Jaehyun in the outer circle; bleeding hand still clenched around the blade, he offers it handle-first.

“In order to forge the circle properly, we must recite a simple declaration,” Anri informs. “Please follow suit.”

Jaehyun does not hesitate, takes the bloody knife and turns it over in their hands. Blood smudges off the handle onto skin. 

Turning to the next spoke of the circle, Jaehyun lifts the sharp point of the blade to rest against Ester’s sternum.

“Welcome me, as I welcome the void,” Jaehyun recites evenly. Ester nods to him and wraps a hand over the blade, collecting Kjetil’s blood on her palm.

“I welcome you with a fearless heart,” Ester declares.

The two share a kiss and the knife changes hands.

Ester continues, and all around the circle they recite the chant at knife-point and seal it with a kiss. Soon enough, it passes to Asra.

Elouan recites the declaration while pointing the knife at Asra’s heart.

There is not even a flicker of emotion in her eyes, but the vibrant amber pulls Asra in so deep that he tastes seawater and nearly drowns upon it. He swallows the sensation down roughly, and Elouan snickers. She pats Asra’s shoulder with the flat of the blade.

“_Oui_. Swallow your fears. What a good boy.”

Asra blinks, mind blanking. “I… I’m not a boy,” he manages hazily.

“_Pardon_…” The knife-point returns to his chest. Elouan's glassy eyes wait expectantly. “I am sorry. Now...?”

Asra takes a steadying breath and forges on. “I welcome you with my fearless heart,” his voice breaks at the final word. But he did it. 

“Ça suffit,” _<“That’ll do,”>_ Elouan retracts the knife, hands it to him, and leans in to peck his cheek. Smears of blood transfer from the blade to his hands.

Asra takes a heavy breath and turns to Jaehyun to complete the circle. “Welcome me, as I welcome the void,” he repeats.

“I welcome you with a fearless heart,” Jaehyun finishes.

With a final kiss to seal the circle, the knife is passed to Anri.

“Now the circle is formed, we can move to the ritual itself,” Anri continues. “Or to extend the metaphor; now that we have our parchment and quill, we can get to writing the message.”

Anri carries the knife to the centre as they speak. “We start with who the message is from.”

They push the blade deep into their palm, flinching lightly. Taking Lucio by the arm, they steady his hand with their own, and a matching incision is made. They then press their palms together to mix their blood.

Anri offers the knife back to Kjetil without a word.

After taking it, Kjetil does the same as Anri. First an incision through his uninjured palm, one through Lucio’s, then clasping hands. They form a smaller ring within the outer one, all within the final ring of mirrors. Holding each of Count Lucio’s hands, Kjetil and Anri support the knife together in their free hands.

“With this, we declare the sacrifice,” Anri explains. “Whose spirit passes through. Done like this, however; we trick the rift, or the void, or whatever you want to call it, into believing Lucio’s body is made of his spirit also. It will allow our sacrifice to cross over to the other side safely, and return having taken nothing; having left nothing of himself behind.”

Together, they angle the blade against Lucio’s chest.

“Finally, we part the veil and declare to the planes we are traveling. This cannot be properly described in any language made by mortal kind, so… we must turn to our soothsayer to continue.”

Still holding the blade over Lucio’s sternum, Kjetil begins to whisper.

Eventually, the words are loud enough to hear clearly, but Asra can’t understand the language. He doesn’t even recognize it.

Scattered words reverberate through his mind. Some carry familiarity, meaning; most words carry only a gut-wrenching tenderness. 

Uncomfortable shifting all around the circle makes it clear that everyone else can also hear the resonance. Or feel it.

Asra feels power eke from every essence of his being; his spirit, his aura, his imagination. Everyone charges the spell, casting as a group and pooling energies. Mixing magic with all these others is nearly overwhelming, but there is an entire spectrum of support holding his head above the metaphorical water. From the toughening provocations of one who wants to hold back your potential, to the starry-eyed strength of a life-long fan. He finds courage in them all and swims in the rising tides of magic.

Perhaps it is only because he is surrounded by mirrors but, he feels a reflection of his own support echo in the liminal realm. A strange mingling of ambition. He can do anything, become anyone, share the world with every passing stranger. He can learn a hundred different techniques or repeat one thing a hundred-hundred times. He can devote himself to meaninglessness, or stake a passionate claim. He believes in himself, more than anything in the world; and now he believes in miracles. He believes in Gods and Saints and bad ideas.

What he doesn’t quite believe, however; is what he sees. The Magician, wandering in and out of the jet-black mirrors which surround them. Asra’s gaze trails behind the familiar fox-faced entity as they step between reflections.

“Well, you’ve come wandering quite far into the void.” Magician fixes him with a disappointed glare. A parent scolding their wayward child. “Foolish, as usual, Asra. You know, there isn’t any harm in thinking before you act…?”

The Magician stops beside Kjetil and Lucio, giving them each a passing inspection before turning their full body toward Anri.

“Yet, you are certain that you trust this person.”

Asra draws upon his new-found confidence, then drops it back into an ocean of welling magic. _What makes them so sure… what does trust have to do with anything?_ Asra shakes his head, wordless; or perhaps, thoughtless.

“No? Oh, no, but why be certain of anything. Why bother instructing you, at all?” The Magician chuckles sweetly. 

Asra is familiar with the mind games they like to play. Tugging him ever closer to the brink of epiphany.

It is sometimes hard to tell when Magician is being wise, and when they are just being childish. They might have sleeves full of leading answers but when they only question; typically it’s because they are being attentive. Wanting to tag along for the ride, to see what Asra will get up to. 

While considering, he watches Magician snatch the mask from Anri’s face. Neatly tied ribbons tear, releasing tucked strands of hair.

Quite a childish thing to do, upon reflection.

And as he reflects, so do the mirrors. So does the entire circle.

Anri’s reflections differ in each mirror, reacting in a myriad of ways to the furry. 

In one mirror they smile warmly and carry on the ritual. In another, Anri and Kjetil ignore the fox completely as they force their blade between Lucio’s ribs. 

One reflection dodges, leaving the Magician to snatch the knife and stab Lucio for themself. Another yet offers them the knife.

In several other reflections, Anri strikes out at the Magician first. In one of them, they win. In all of them: Lucio’s heart is opened by the blade.

The Anri which stands in the waking world gives no reaction at all. They hold the knife completely still in their hand, in the material world, in the same plane and on the same planet that Asra's body occupies; the knife is held by Anri and Kjetil both. The blade grazes lightly over Lucio’s exposed chest.

Lucio is unharmed and radiant in the centre of the circle, basking in sickening attention.

Asra looks around the garden-in-making, at the faces of those he’s agreed to cast with. Most appear entranced, eye-lids flickering. Some are wide-eyed, just as he is, vision seeking some new bond.

Surrounding them, a ring of mirrors. Forged in leylines and bound with mysterious enchantments. They each describe a different passage of events in their image.

Hundreds of reflections, or only thirteen; flickering between all their minds. In Asra’s mind, he admits, he imagines violence. The images come to him in cold, sharp stabs. Bulging, blood-shot eyes. Vicious swinging fists, stamping down a mess of teeth and gore. Around him, every mirror bears visions of the grotesque.

Nadia’s well-armed hands parry back a risen corpse. From Ester’s fists, jets of flame engulf and liquefy the sacrifice. Between Elouan’s teeth, flesh shreds, leaving Lucio’s beating heart exposed for consumption.

Pontifex Vulgora slams their gauntlets down upon every inch of him, pleasure and restraint warring in their intense glare. 

Beside them, the impossibly frail and famished-looked Procurator Volta munches down on a pile of meaty ribs. 

Next in line; Praetor Vlastomil forces winding pestilent fingers down the Count’s gaping throat, opening it wider for- _oh god those are worms-_

Asra hastily tears his eyes away.

To land upon a bony surgeon. Quaestor Valdemar, coolly dissecting the Count’s organs. Their hollow-eyed stare paints the very picture of Death itself. Asra watches them peel back a flap of detached skin from Lucio’s chest, to pin it out of the way, granting them both a clearer view. 

Asra’s vision freezes, dancing with horrible daydreams… _so that’s what the inside of a ribcage looks like… huh…_

He locks eyes with Nadia across the circle. She holds his gaze for a moment, before slowly blinking at him once. Then, twice.

Asra returns a soothing blink.

Behind Nadia, he spies a reflection of Lucio’s mangled corpse.

It twitches and jerks unnaturally, snapping Asra’s gaze back to the centre of the ritual. Where Lucio, perhaps somewhat harmed, somewhat less radiant, wobbles and shakes. In his outline stands a black hole. It sucks the colour from the world; slowly creeping grey up the arms of Kjetil and Anri where they grasp hold. His body shimmers strangely, like he is made of stone. Or that he is made of magic, of imagination. Maybe he has made himself with lies. 

“Please…” Lucio’s gasps, neck creaking around to meet Asra’s eyes with a desperate intensity. “Please… s-stop, it’s not working… plea… p…plea…ease…”

Asra stares, and stares. He’s asking them to stop? Should they stop? …they should stop! How do they stop!?

He looks around, but nobody even seems to take notice of Lucio’s bone-breaking begging. Or nobody cares.

Lucio gasps and hisses and shouts. “_Ss- s- sssssst-AAH!_”

“Sh- shouldn’t we…?” Asra trails off, trying to catch somebody’s attention. No one meets his gaze but Lucio. “Do you…”

“_Yeeesss!_” Lucio - …Lucio’s reflection? - contorts unnaturally. “_Yesss, make them… stop_ them… interrupt\- uh, uhhh …you can’t… _don’t let them_… finish...”

Asra feels tears welling in his eyes. It almost feels the same as real emotion. Like an excess of sorrow or bliss that floods his being with _so much_ to feel, then expels what he cannot contain.

So he cries; he feels like crying. It’s one and the same, his reflections confirm. Emotion is but a series of sparks in the mind, to write itself an existence in this realm. A delicate chemical formula that results in tears, and cloudy eyes drowned wet with rainfall.

And this is magic. The feelings and the felt. So how can Anri not _feel_ that, when they cast?

More alarmingly, how can Anri not see or care that Lucio is floundering at them to cut the ritual short? How can Kjetil not see it? How can’t anybody… not even Ester?

His head spins to find her in the circle. What had she said, though… not to listen to the denizens of other realms?

They’re in another realm now, aren’t they? Is this what she meant?

But then, Magician said something too. About a void? The void is realm-less… and there is Anri's note, to not feel so readily...

So, can he even believe that thing? Is it really Lucio? He can’t be sure it’s even using Lucio’s voice. 

Nobody else takes the begging seriously; whether they cannot hear what Asra hears, or because they know better than to listen… perhaps for some other reason.

But on the other hand: Can he really trust Ester’s warning?

“Are you… You’re... just going to let them… you… you monster… you…” Lucio pants heavily, as the strain of a dozen deaths weighs down on him. Each a different fantasy, reflected in the mirrors and the magic.

At the same time, Asra takes in a wholly mundane scene. 

Lucio, Kjetil, and Anri are all statue-still in the centre of the circle. The observers stand calmly in the outer ring. Nobody’s hands are doing any harm at all - though spotted with Kjetil’s blood, they firmly grasp onto their neighbours’ throughout. Even Asra, while seeing himself holding Lucio’s head below water, is only really holding hands in the material realm.

Yet it might as well be the same. It feels the same; it feels sickening. He wants it to stop.

The moment he thinks it; it does. They’re all just standing in a circle, waiting. The ritual might never have even started.

But still, it rages on, beneath the surface. He wills himself not to dip back into it, and not to seek eye contact.

His gaze slips up toward the heavens. For a moment the sky appears deep tyrian, with stars like silver paint swirling into darkness. 

He draws peace from the expanse above him, from a moonless night he might reflect on years from now. In some moment after a thrilling climax, perhaps, he’ll remember standing here. At some future time when things will be so drastically different. He won’t be feeling so embarrassed and inadequate, or so charmed, so damn _impulsive_. He’ll have learned some kind of lesson this present self would envy knowing.

Asra reflects to distract from the present. From the ritual sacrifice and the brutal murders just one daydream away.

He thinks of telling Muriel about this later… then imagines Muriel’s panicked, terrified reaction - quite justified - and considers keeping this to himself. Since not knowing will sooner preserve that precious druid’s sanity.

Surely Muriel has secrets of his own? It’s not like open honesty is so vital to their relationship… _it isn’t like that_, Asra assures himself.

With a sigh, his eyelids flutter closed. The stars above blink out. It’s enough to bring himself back down to earth. Enough to remember how to breathe evenly. 

Thinking about Muriel always is… grounding. The sturdy tree roots to his running water. 

“Lucio's spirit is returning,” Anri’s voice echoes back through realms, informative but dull. “Not much longer now… thank you all for your co-operation.”

Asra opens his eyes again, reassessing the scene before him. 

The void-like creature where Lucio stood is gone; the garden setting returned to its rightful realm. 

Three the inner circle drop to their knees as Lucio drags them downward. He dangles from each arm supporting him, breathing heavily and twitching erratically.

“Lucio…” Anri speaks quietly, dropping their booming tour-guide voice. “How are you feeling…?”

Lucio writhes a little, yanking Anri down to his level by the arm.

Both casters on either side of Asra release his hand and he is overwhelmed by the sudden sense of freedom.

He doesn’t want to wait around to say goodbye, he doesn’t want to make any plans or think anything through.

After all that… All he wants to do is run.

So he does. Turns tail and flees the scene before anybody can notice him missing. Not for the first time, and it surely wouldn’t be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might come back and draw a CG for this chapter at some point if anyone is interested...?


	3. (II) the High Priestess

Despite fleeing the ritual at the precise second which it ended, Asra can’t manage to outrun its effects. It follows, like a plague. 

All the way back to his tiny corner of Muriel’s hut; it stalks. Wards him from shadows and holds his tongue when he tries to give it voice.

It grows within. Taking form of long-forgotten doubts and sudden new concerns, filling Asra with anxieties. Abandoned hopes haunting the backs of eyelids. 

The only way he manages to drift to sleep for weeks is by calmly breathing to the pace of Muriel’s snores. 

After that Masquerade, Asra abruptly stops mentioning Anri. 

Muriel is the only person to notice. 

Of course this is nothing new. It wasn’t usually long into Asra’s latest infatuation that he’d realize the individual doesn’t truly embody his fantasies. 

He is just as quick to admit an end to what he shared with Anri that night. He can readily declare their dalliance _dead upon departure_, and admit himself a fool for following them. Was he really so hopelessly dense as to overlook _every_ sign of danger, dive head-first into the void, simply because someone cool and confident sucked his dick? 

We asked every one of Major Arcana, and all twenty-two say **yes**.

The Tower even says it will ultimately lead to the ruin of the natural world.

Given the Tower says that about everything, however; Asra doesn’t pay it terribly much mind. He is more interested in what Death has to say about the ritual... about Kjetil, his pocket realm, and the state of Lucio’s spirit. 

Death’s warnings come just as melodramatic and grandiose as the Tower’s. 

_**Beware the deep dark gloom…**_ Yes, naturally. 

_**This folly will cast you into chaos…**_ As if his entire life wasn’t in the grip of chaos since his parents went missing.

_**Heed the corruption…** _Asra has to laugh at that one. 

_Which corruption?_ He counters, thinking on the many sources of corrupt politic that tinker with his city-state behind the curtains. 

_**You are young and innocent, still, sweet Magician. I won’t guide you into this darkness,**_ Death proclaims with a note of finality. 

Asra does not accept the note, but claws deeper into the Arcana’s realm for answers. 

He draws reading after reading, ignoring baleful warnings left and right as restlessness only grows. Shadows linger and thoughts intrude. 

To cleanse his readings, he even goes so far as to retrieve the first tarot deck he ever made from the depths of Muriel’s storage space. To reconnect with his roots, perhaps… allow certain voices a rawer channel. It seems to work - or perhaps it only has an effect in his mind. Eventually, Asra feels that slipping sensation as the Arcana dismiss him to the mundane realm.

The Queen of Cups and the King of Wands overlap to tell him one last important message: 

_Seek the healer’s serpent; a messenger of gods who delivers their cures._

Then, the Arcana retreats from his prying, scrying, and vague demands. He feels their gaze upon him linger, but guidance withers in the face of desperation. 

Of course, the message reminds him of someone. 

It occurs to visit the magic shop, _Serpens Caducetorium_. Perhaps to request some kind of protective magic or even some advice from the owner. 

An outright request might give the impression that he knows what he’s doing, however; which is not a position he’s comfortable being in. Especially not after exposing his spirit to the void and under-world and all the realms between, all in one fell swoop. 

Though he gets good business setting up in the alcove behind Ester’s shop, he’s rarely stepped inside. For one thing, it caters to those far wealthier than Asra. Which was never an issue, since he is already a capable practitioner of magic, and anyhow prefers traveling to the source for ingredients and magic items. 

Deep down he knows why truly he avoids Ester. To avoid the painful reminders her doting nature brings of Asra’s own mother. 

The first time little Asra met the shop owner, it was shortly after finally accepting their parents weren’t coming back. From whatever dark and nasty world they went to. Ester helped them understand that, a little bit better. Ester was even the first to make it clear to them how many years had really passed, while they were searching for Salim and Aisha in the Palace. 

Three whole years… although it took another three years again for that to properly sink in.

Ester had invited young Asra inside her shop, then. Offered them anything their little heart desired to eat or drink, and somewhere safe to sleep.

Since accepting her generosity had felt like betraying lost parents, little Asra kept their distance. In other words; they had run from her then, the same way they’d run from the ritual at the Masquerade. 

Also then, just like now; little Asra returned within the month. She freely offered her kitchen to all orphans and strays in the city. Little Asra was willing to accept, but only on their own terms. 

Theft brings guilt, perhaps; but less so than betraying one’s parents. It happens to be quite easy to justify stealing from someone who already offered their bounty. 

When little Asra’s food supply sank lower the following month, they stole back through the window for more. And the next month again, and again the month after next.

For many moons, little Asra prides themself on being such a masterfully stealthy young fox as to evade suspicion for so long. Until they come upon a care package; their own name writ upon the label. A kindly message withing, in three languages using two different alphabets. And attached was the softest silk robe they’ve ever touched, even still. When the finery was inevitably torn up in Asra’s wild-child lifestyle, Ester even took a day to wash and patch it.

Asra’s memories of Ester and her _Caducetorium_ are overwhelmingly wholesome and positive, upon reflection. A widely shared sentiment.

Since its construction, the apothecary shop has slowly established its place in the Vesuvian community. 

Many will attest to its credibility and the generosity of its original owners. The two impressive and powerful sorceresses; Ester and her late wife, Yvon. Older residents of Vesuvia reflect fondly on the whole family. Always with a mystified respect for the two lady sorceresses, and distant admiration for their three children.

Raised with such high exposure to magic, almost everyone anticipated the boys developing powerful magic of their own. None ever took to the arcane as well as to the other arts, however. 

Despite harboring mundane proclivities, Yvon and Ester’s three sons all carry valuable insights into the supernal. Non-magical residents of Vesuvia report conversations with either one of the twins, Shiloh or Benedikt, as being instrumental to their understanding of practical magic. Many more still credit the youngest son, Esriel, with shaping their appreciation for the divine pantheons and spiritual purpose.

Until the red plague frightened so many back across borders, and claimed half of its remaining lives. 

That was how every story in Vesuvia ended these days: All was well and wholesome until pestilence stripped bare the land, and the community broke with mad fear.

Even magic cannot shield its users from the deteriorating illness. So many talented new mages losing everything before his eyes might have been enough to break Asra, too, without his respite in Muriel’s forest hut. Some days he even ponders what keeps him bound to Vesuvia. 

It used to be that his parents raised him here, then it was that his parents disappeared here. More recently, he supposes, it’s that magic is respected in Vesuvia. In ways it isn’t even understood beyond the Black Valley region. 

Further North, the wild Red Plains region is barely passable for all its giant magical beasts. Gluttons of energy, drawn by instinct to devour the very essence of emotion. To gulp it down with the soul, the blood, the flesh. Vivid thoughts of rot and death flash between the associations.

Asra shakes the imagery loose from his skull. His mind has been like this ever since the ritual. Plagued with red. 

_Red with plague_, he fears. That fear is prey to the Plains’ beasts. 

In Vesuvia, mostly just the fish are prey. The beasts are afraid, by and large; and magic is understood. 

So perhaps that’s what keeps him bound to Vesuvia. That it’s all he understands, and it is comfortable here. Comfortable as sensory deprivation is comfortable; as rote spells are comfortable.

_Maybe that’s the problem,_ he considers. His spells, his magic; he isn’t powerful enough on his own to tap into the same energies as that ritual. _So, that’s the problem? I can’t do it alone._

_But I am alone._

With Muriel, sometimes, but ultimately _alone_. Without drive, unsustained, and **alone**. 

Muriel, too, lives alone. Together with his wolf, and his chickens, but alone. 

They take harbour in each other only because they’re safer with each other’s eyes guarding their back. To give each other a better chance, by sharing what they can. But what they share is a practical clanhood; not an emotional support-line.

They hold hands to cast, because their magic is stronger pooled. They share a bed on cold nights to preserve individual body heat. They cut each other’s hair because there’s no one else around to do it. 

_Yes, that’s it_, Asra reconciles with the notion. _We live together, to lead our separate lives._

Their relationship is too bloated with Muriel’s silence and Asra’s indecision to ever approach something real. Muriel is always deep in his own thoughts. Reflecting on one of many executions his hands were forced to pass. On most days the man doesn’t even seem to recognize himself in the surface of a stream. 

Asra can see it in Muriel’s eyes - just how vacant he can become. How truly separate from his spirit those years of fighting rendered him. There is too much - and too little - to process in that man’s dark and beautiful mind… 

Asra cannot burden him with a problem like this. So existential, and dangerous, with so many personal strings attached. 

Anybody would do the same in their position. _It’s only practical._

Only Practical: after all, that's their relationship. Practical, like domestic magic; like Asra’s magic. It's only surface-deep. A fleeting convenience. Or, like Anri’s magic. It’s all illusion, imaginary. A comfortable setting, which frames a reassuring lie. 

Not like real magic. Of matter, substance, spiritual reconstruction and traversing dimensions. There is no space for that kind of magic between Asra and Muriel. No room for airing baggage and communicating feelings and moving past old pain. 

Which is powerful magic of its own. To visit dimensions housed within; cross planes created deep in mind. Asra sometimes feels his childhood self, his still-developing soul, curled up somewhere inside. Little Asra’s inner realm, somewhere further behind the stage of his inner mind’s Theatre. Through a magic gateway and beyond.

In that realm of inner innocence, there is no existential danger. 

There are no frightening alien realms, no missing parents, no impending starvation. There is only wide-eyed wonder at the miracles of the mind. 

In that peaceful inner realm; all magic is a benefit, nobody ever hurts, and everything can be qualified. And all magic is good.

But of course, that is a lie. 

Magic is a spectrum. Magic is of every colour, every scale, every sound. Magic is honest. Magic is deceit. Magic is wonder. Magic is corrupting, unnatural, unknowable. 

Magic is precious and domestic. 

Magic is forsaken for very good reasons.

That depth of magic only teased itself to Asra, during those three years hiding in the Vesuvian Palace. 

They found real, tangible evidence of Aisha’s presence in guest rooms, and Salim’s laboratory work. Both parents’ names in prison records. But all the leads which little Asra found led them down paths too frightening and unnatural to comprehend. They could only imagine the worst fates had befallen Aisha and Salim Alnazar, and so left those bleached white magicks where they lay. 

For years, it was the right decision. The safe decision for a child concerned with surviving the season.

But now, at the other side of his juvenescence, Asra might stand a chance down those unknowable avenues. 

Though he doesn’t really dare to hope, mayhap he could follow a path to his parents, where ever they are. In whichever realm of the living or the dead they yet linger… perhaps he can find more clues if he only digs a little deeper.

  
\+ ~ + ~ +

  
In the past, when he first happened across the _Serpens Caducetorium_, Asra had no interest in its contents. He thought his parents taught him everything he’d need to know, and that includes the Magician. 

Little Asra didn’t want another mentor past their mother, their father, and their bipedal fox guardian. Not even if they dared to covet one.

So for years, Asra willfully avoided Ester and her generosities. Now, he finds, he has no line of contact when he needs one. He only has a few days of the year, spotted here and there, of arriving before the competition. Snagging the coveted alcove set-up location is like playing a chance game of fate.

For weeks, Asra arrives after some other magic-user has already set up their act in the garden alcove. And for weeks, Asra doesn’t mind. Prefers it that way, even. It gives him another chance to ponder the ritual for himself, and take a day of quiet exploration. 

It also gives him a chance to stop by the marketplace before the morning rush, and try some of whatever mad doughy experiment got cooked up that morning. For nothing but a bit of magic! Of course, it was hardly _nothing_ to that friendly baker. Apparently; healed fingers are worth at least a few slices of that sweet, hot, delicious and depression-curing pumpkin bread. 

Asra can bring the bread back to the forest, where he and Muriel can share it while the sun rises. A fond and reliable tradition for them both. 

In that sense, it’s almost a disappointment for Asra to finally come across the alcove empty one morning. 

Laying out his trappings is now second nature. Cushions on the marble benches. Tarot deck on the edge of the table, lantern in the centre. Writing equipment strewn haphazardly beside him. Faust where-ever she deems most comfortable.

In deep Summer, that will in be somewhere in the water fountain’s drainage pipe. 

In the Spring; somewhere shaded by royal ferns, in bloom under the windowsills. 

In Autumn, she can commonly be seen hiding in piles of fallen leaves. If she’s feeling adventurous, she might climb the vine wall, or pose with the black serpent statue in the pond. 

On Winter’s chilliest mornings, such as this, Faust won’t dare to vacate her pouch of heated rocks. 

Curled up comfortably in Asra’s satchel, she won’t emerge until the shop owner’s family light their fireplace, and the chimney bricks absorb enough warmth to fill the alcove. 

Asra nestles back against the shared wall with the indoor fireplace. Stone-cold; unlit; but it will only be a matter of hours until a family member arrives to start a fire. Also to open their shop, maybe. The important part is lighting the fireplace.

Dawn has faintly tinged the sky when telltale sparks echo up the chimney. Soon enough, perhaps, Ester will take a wander through her back garden and take notice of Asra’s set-up. Like usual, she’ll check in with him, and he will take the opportunity to mention the ritual…

It is something of a game plan, if a fairly weak one. And if it doesn’t work out? Well, there is always tomorrow… if he manages to snag the spot.

He entertains several passing early risers, earning a pocketful of spare change in the process. The Arcana lingers close-by all the while, watching and waiting for Ester’s rise.

The morning passes into mid-day. 

Faust slithers out to stretch along the back of the chimney wall. Thus commences her second cycle of sleep for the day.

When the sun hangs high above, Ester makes her grand appearance. Clad in a grubby apron, hair askew, stomping across the balcony above the alcove in boots several sizes too large for her feet. When she back-tracks to check the alcove’s occupant, she quite nearly slips in the ill-fitting footwear.

“Good day, little Magician,” she smiles down from the upper landing, “My, it’s been an age since you were here last.”

“Well,” Asra stretches out along the bench, in what he hopes is a clear display of apparent comfort, “it’s the warmest spot to set up in winter.”

“Say…” Ester drums her fingers against the balcony’s guardrail. Deep blue irises reflect the fountain below, dappling highlights through her eyes. It almost _looks_ how Asra thinks the neon green sea-foam in the Magician’s realm _tastes_. 

“Could you tell my fortune?” Ester’s voice ebbs likes the tide in her eyes. “Is that how one should phrase it?”

Asra nods away the distraction. 

“What kind of reading are you after?” He calls. Reclining upside-down on the bench twists his body and neck but also gives him a clearer angle.

Ester hums, the note drifting into silence for a few moments of thought. 

“Something to test the wits,” Ester poses the challenge with candid charm. “I’ll be right down with you.”

Ester doesn’t wait for a response before she’s turned on her heel and re-entered her home. 

Barely a minute later comes the jangling tune of the shop front’s door-chimes. Footsteps approach around the side of the building, before Ester joins Asra in her garden alcove.

Asra gestures to the space opposite him, adjusting on the bench to settle upright. “If I may,” he starts, reaching for his tarot deck. “You’ve never wanted a reading before… why now?”

The cards fold skillfully between Asra’s fingers while Ester considers the question.

“It’s manifold.” Her lips purse. “Perhaps the reading will explain it better than I?”

Asra nods, working through the deck’s many layers. Every abstraction turns a new page. A new curtain drawn across his inner mind theater, where the Magician tends an empty stage.

“So you want… something that will test _my_ wits, or yours?” 

“Whichever came to mind first, I suppose.”

Asra considers, setting the deck aside. A three-card spread is painfully simple, and easily dismissed. Though his personal favorite; a love reading seems inappropriate for the situation. 

Other spreads range from deeply personal to broadly societal, depending on the query.

“You don’t have something specific to ask the cards?” Asra taps them, more for the stimulation than any practical reason.

Ester settles onto a cushion on the opposite bench. When she merely shrugs in response, Asra tries another approach.

“This isn’t about the gateway, is it?”

A smiles stretches across Ester’s lips in slow motion. “Anri’s right,” she chimes. “You _are_ attentive.”

Asra tries his best not to react to that. 

Ester continues with a laugh. “Although, I suppose it’s rather obvious. Certainly, the ritual is still fresh in my own mind. And you disappeared as the ritual ended... For a moment, I truly feared we’d left you behind in the wrong realm,” her tone steels as the conversation shifts. “Was it not a struggle to process the aftermath on your own? As I understand, this was your first step into Hel.”

“_Hel_…” Asra repeats. “That’s where we went?”

“That’s what some call it.”

“Including you?”

“So it seems… Do you know it by another name?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, but it wasn’t much like any realms of magic I’ve seen.”

“You must have come to some conclusion about it, by now?”

Asra takes a breath, frowning into the gradients in Ester’s eyes. “No,” he admits eventually, compelled to honesty. “Only questions.”

“You only need to ask, if you seek answers.” 

Ester sits up straighter on the bench, shoulders flattening with graceful confidence.

“What… did we do, exactly?”

“We created a pocket dimension, among other things.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

Ester laughs. “If you were conducting it, or conducting it alone, I would say _**yes**_. That would be very dangerous.”

“How could it go wrong?”

“Oh, so many different ways. It’s a good thing Kjetil knows what he’s doing.”

“Does he really?”

“He does.”

“So, he’s done this before?”

“Many times.”

“With… Count Lucio?”

“Not as such,” Ester heaves dramatically, mulling over the last question in the barrage. “But I won’t answer questions about Lucio’s private life.”

“I’m not interested in the Count’s private life,” Asra quickly assures. 

Ester quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing aloud. 

“I just want to know why the nobility are… meddling with other realms.”

“And that’s your business, is it?” Ester smiles evenly, sweetly, oh so innocently, blinking clue-less as a dove. 

Asra frowns at the question. “Isn’t it? I was there, wasn’t I? Not to mention I’ve lived here longer than the state’s so-called _rulers_, I’ve got a right to know what they’re hiding in other realms, don’t I?”

“So, you’re looking for something…”

“Yes,” Asra snaps. “I’m looking for answers. What is the Count doing with… with people like that? With necromancers? In pocket dimensions? Who else…” Asra cuts himself off, running a lashing tongue over front teeth to stall his words. No need to make it so obvious that he _is_ looking for something... or some one. 

Two some-ones.

Ester steadies herself with a breath, ultimately dismissing the line of questioning. 

“Would you like me to submit you for an audience with the Count, Asra?”

He shakes his head, too surprised by his own sudden rage to care anymore. “Just… just tell me,” he sighs, “I just want to know… _uh_, if you’re really absolutely sure that it was safe and that you trust… Kjetil. And your, um, nibling.”

“Yes, Asra,” Ester confirms with a solemnity Asra doesn’t expect. “I trust Kjetil and Anri to safely navigate a pocket realm of their own creation.”

“You said yourself we did more than that,” Asra counters. “And I _heard_ what was Kjetil was… _saying_, chanting? I don’t know _what_ I heard when I heard it, but I _did_ hear something, and it didn’t… sound natural. It sounded like… like holding back screams… like it should be forbidden.”

“Is that what it sounded like to you?” Ester chuckles, “how esoteric. To me it sounds… A bit like Lomanse? Of course, I don’t speak Lomanse. Not anywhere near fluently enough, to my dear Elouan’s misfortune. I digress; to me, it certainly did not sound quite as _dramatic_ as that,” she draws out the mockery with a sharp tsk. “Almost a pity. I suppose Deep Speech isn’t familiar to everyone, but I can assure you that there isn’t anything inherently _nightmarish_ about it, Magician.”

Asra falls silent, mouth agape. Too many questions spring to mind to sort through them with any clarity. 

“So, to be precise: Your concern is… Kjetil? Or his trade? Necromancy isn’t just summoning the dead, Asra. Those who practice reanimation are… unsavory sorts, who give necromancers a bad name. Kjetil is a sweetheart, really. He looks more dangerous than he really is, and only because of the people who raised him.”

Ester regards him evenly. He tries not to show anything in his features but feels Ester’s scrutiny wash across his very soul. She crosses her hands in her lap, shaking her patient, golden head.

“What is it that you really want to know?”

Asra wilts under the direct question. A nervous hand lifts to scratch one temple. He exhales; feeling anxiety release in the breath, yet clinging to this compulsion toward honesty.

“I… don’t know, specifically. Who… um, who raised him?”

Ester chews her bottom lip, a hesitance to her which Asra has never seen before. She is usually a figure of light and welcome, but the expression haunting her features now looks downright anxious. 

How surprising. Asra finds the sight a little comforting - to know that she isn’t fully in control, and only puts forward the same kind of guise which Asra does himself. 

He finds his confidence again in that reassurance. Sitting up receptively seems to influence Ester as well. She relaxes into a moment of inner clarity, speaking up again.

“Those who raised him are long gone now. Punished for iniquities. Kjetil himself saw it laid to rest. It’s all in the past,” Ester chuckles at some private joke. “Literally. You don’t need to fret about him… up and declaring the non-magical population fodder for experiments - that’s not something he inherited from his parents, I can assure you.”

“Anri said… you share a common bloodline?” 

Ester blinks, vulnerability flashing in her eyes before she clears her throat. Her persona of confidence rekindles.

“That’s a question, is it?” She quirks an eyebrow.

“Well, doesn’t that make his parents…” Asra frowns, uncertain why his question wasn’t obvious, “Aren’t they your parents as well?”

“No,” Ester pauses. “They decided not to be.”

“Oh… Did you ever know them?”

“No.”

The blunt delivery gives Asra pause. “Sorry… this must be hard to talk about.” 

“Yes,” Ester frowns. “I cannot fault your curiosity, however; and since we did appear to take advantage of you for the ritual, I think you’re owed some answers.”

Asra doesn’t manage a response. He wants to thank her for her honesty, but doesn’t quite find the gratitude within.

“Just… not answers about my parentage,” she clarifies. “It’s not a simple topic, nor one for polite discussion.”

“I understand,” Asra mumbles, averting his eyes. “Listen… Dangerous magic… I don’t know anything about that. I really can’t tell if that ritual we did was… dangerous, or not.” He sighs. “It’s been keeping me awake.”

Ester nods, eyes soft with pity. “I’m sorry you’ve been having trouble sleeping. I assure you, the ritual did not endanger any of its witnesses.”

“What about… its practitioners?”

“The only real danger was Lucio’s potential demise. Nobody would have been particularly gutted about that, though,” Ester snickers.

Asra snorts, despite himself. “Not even Lucio?”

Ester barks with surprise, as she considers how the Count might _feel_. For what seems like the very first time. 

“I did suspect,” she stammers, blithely voicing various tones of unexpected laughter, “that our dear dull Count remains as _ignorant_ as the rest of us, regarding what he was truly asking of Kjetil.”

“You don’t know what he asked for?”

Ester shrugs. “Youth? Time? A promise to outlive his body, on the lips of his admirers?” Ester runs a tongue across her upper lip, pausing to think. “Maybe he wants to start over… what difference does it make to know?”

Asra doesn’t have an answer, but more questions. “Don’t you think we common folk deserve to know… what kinds of demons our self-appointed leaders are harboring?”

Ester sneers into pursed lips. “So, then, wouldn’t leaders **deserve** to know of their subjects’ demons?”

Asra frowns, shaking his head. “Ye… No! What… no, I don’t-”

“Whatever you think you deserve, Asra, has no real bearing on what comes your way.”

Silence settles into the folds of their conversation. Voices of the whispering arcana fall away and rise sporadically. 

The lantern light fades under strength of the midday sun. Asra’s fingers trace the stylized eye mosaic in the centre of the marble table-top, as he reaches toward it.

He blows out the lantern flame. 

“Do you still want a reading?” 

Ester takes a soothing breath before articulating a nod.

“I can lay out a seven card spread for you. To investigate what surrounds a query.” Asra speaks carefully, checking that Ester is following along. She nods again, prompting Asra to continue.

He takes a sheet of parchment and a quill from his bag beside him.

“For the question itself,” Asra slides writing equipment across the table toward her. “Write it on this paper, if you please.”

Ester takes the quill and considers for a moment. She marks her note in the runic alphabet native to Vesuvia, and greater Black Valley region at large.

Watching Ester scratch out the native alphabet stabs with memories of his mother Aisha, teaching little Asra the alphabet. Adult Asra does his best to set those memories aside, and focus on the present. He scoops his deck into practiced palms.

Preliminary thoughts drift out from across realms, carried upon the cards. First, as always, the Magician reaches out. 

“_Oh… now, this one has expectations…_” the Magician echoes softly in their shared stream of consciousness. “_Keep wrangling those fates, Asra… shuffle away…_”

They do so, lifting their chin to meet Ester’s eye. Her figure is not an especially imposing one, but the cards ripple with discomfort in Asra’s hands. One flies out of the deck mid-shuffle, dropping into their lap face-down. 

Asra places the deck back on the table, to retrieve the eager voice from their lap.

The fallen card face shows a fluffy lop-eared bunny, crowned in a laurel wreath. A symbol Asra associates with the King of Pentacles, whenever they converse with the minor arcana. 

“_Ester…_” the minor arcanum says, as voices mumbling in the mind, “_I wish to part the veil and reunite with her..._” 

Asra blinks down at the card, taking in its message. The reading has not properly commenced, yet the card’s message is so powerful Asra is compelled to flip its face toward Ester. 

“This one speaks your name, and a wish. _To part the veil and reunite_. Does that mean anything to you?” 

Ester leans forward, squinting at the sweet purple bunny on the card’s face. “Should it? I hardly know a thing about tarot… aren’t you supposed to tell me what this all means? Isn’t that why people come to you for…” she waves a hand over the deck in general, “all of this?”

Asra shrugs. “Yes, in theory. Customers are usually here for insight or perspective. Fuel to further read into their own situations. My customers have need of a listener, sometimes; not an interpreter… and Interest begets interest, when it comes to dabbling with the arcane.”

They hope to sound profound and mystical, but Ester seems above it. She lifts an eyebrow. 

“Well, I’ll move on with the reading, then.” Asra sighs, shuffling the King of Pentacles back into the deck. After mixing the deck, they cut three piles and lay them right to left along the tabletop.

They gesture toward the piles, glancing to Ester. “Please reverse as many of the piles as feels right.”

Ester retrieves the centre pile and rotates it 180° in place. After a moment of deliberation, she does the same to the left pile.

Asra retrieves three piles, shuffles them back into one, and repeats laying three piles side by side. Instead of instructing Ester to reserve the piles, this time they do it them-self. They reverse all three piles, and repeat. Shuffling and laying cards for a third and final time.

This time, again, they gestures to Ester. “One more time, please. Reverse however many you feel should be reversed.”

Ester releases a thoughtful snort before asking, “Is this to… attune myself, or something?”

Asra nods. “Yes, a little bit like that. It’s a process of familiarity… and also of multiplying your thoughts onto the astral plane.”

“And it isn’t a matter of chance…?” Ester runs a tongue over her canines, carefully selecting a pile to reverse while she speaks. Her voice takes on a delicate tone; not unlike the one she used to deliver her warning at the Masquerade ritual. “This feels an awful lot like gambling, I’ll have you know. Gambling with _confidence artists_.”

“Ah,” Asra shrugs, “_aha_, yes, I do get that sometimes. It’s not… the same as gambling, really. It’s not. It’s chance, maybe; the chance an arcanum will take notice and present their insight… but you don’t win anything… There isn’t even a win condition... There’s no way to match them, like… to have a set of three the same… well, you’d have used a broken deck.”

Three stacks pack back into one, and finally the reading can be presented. 

Asra draws three cards from the top. One by one, they lay a row from left to right. With the middle card placed higher than the flanking two. All three shape an up-right triangle, from Asra’s view.

Below the middle card, Asra lays a one central card face-down. Then three final cards placed clockwise, to make an inverted triangle that matches the top.

Though the top three were lain down clockwise, Asra reaches for the right-most first. 

“You wrote the question in the holy Omanic alphabet,” Asra explains; noting a shift in their tone similar to Anri’s explanation at the ritual. “Since that script is read from right to left, the reading will also need to be read that way.” 

“I see,” Ester nods. “So the reading must match the writing.”

“Yes!” Asra nods. “Which makes this one on the right here representative of the _past position_ in this spread.”

Fingers pluck the bottom of the card, to reveal its face.

“In the past position is the Seven of Swords, Upright…” 

Deception, strategy, circumventing punishment. In conceptual alignment to how the Masquerade’s ritual must have been conceived.

“Okay, good. The arcana acknowledge a deception. We’re on the same page,” Asra smiles. “We’ll get our answers…” 

Waggling fingers move over to the card in the top centre.

“_Present position_ is,” Asra flips it from bottom to top. “Ace of Wands, Reversed. Hm,” Asra listens. “An idea; delayed… somebody is still waiting for the pay-off to their plan. A stalled beginning?”

Asra glances up at Ester for direction. She shrugs at them, motioning a hand to carry on. They do so. Flipping the third card, in the top-left spoke of the spread.

“Knight of Cups, Reversed, in _future position_.”

A moody, overactive card, if there ever was one. Several overlapping frustrations rise within, rendering them unable to accurately parse a situation. 

“I guess this is a call out,” Asra chuckles. “Whatever the plan was… it was far too ambitious. Unrealistically so.”

He spares another quick glance up, wondering at Ester’s reaction. She doesn’t seem to have one spare.

“This will probably become clearer once we’ve addressed the other cards. Next, then, we have the_ core _of the spread.” They flip, bottom to top, “the Five of Wands, Reversed.”

Conflict, conflict, conflict. Then add another two conflicts.

“Well. This is obvious, too.” Asra licks their lips, speaking quickly as their hand moves on. “Inner conflict feeding outer. Avoidance denies a release,” already flipping the fifth card.

“The Three of Wands. Upright. This position encompasses the general _surrounds_. It can also be taken as the areas which need improving.”

The arcana have drawn Asra completely into the reading now. Speaking with their voice through a collective conscious.

“I think this reading was a good idea, Ester,” an essence of encouragement lifts the corners of Asra’s mouth. It cannot quite accurately be called a smile. “This tells me that we might need to look further abroad. Maybe a trip overseas will provide a valuable opportunity?”

Ester nods, watching closely as Asra flips the sixth card. Bottom to top. 

“Page of Wands, Reversed.”

Asra grunts at the card. “Representing _obstacles_. In the short term. This is actually _better_ reserved, in this position - it means you have the necessary ability, regardless of circumstance, but you’re looking for the inspiration to act. With nothing to act on… energy redirects elsewhere.”

“I see,” Ester leans forward as they arrive at the seventh card.

“Now, to the final. This may be a _suggestion_ or further obstacles in the long-term.” Or an omen... “Five of Swords, Upright.” 

_It could be worse… _

“More conflict, disagreement. Competition on the path to success. Winning at any cost… or else, defeat.”

_Could be considerably better, too. _

“I think the message is… Pick your battles.” 

Asra relaxes with the final card, shifting to assess the reading as a whole.

“Bookended Swords… 7, and 5. Almost gives the impression of moving backward,” Asra mumbles. “But with so many Wands cards, it’s more like... Revising faults, maybe… And the lack of Major Arcana at all actually comforts me a bit. I guess it’s not as… drastic as… it looked?””

Asra spares a glance to Ester, catching an uncanny fondness in her eyes. She bows her head respectfully and rests a palm against her chest.

“Thank you for your insights, young Magician. It seems… I can assure Countess Nadia she has nothing to worry about.”

“Nadia-” 

“Princess Satrinava, Nadia of Prakra. Countess of Vesuvia. Said you met at the Masquerade?”

Asra nods, recalling. 

“When she learned of your fortune-telling, she thought to invite you to the Palace for a private reading.”

“A private-”

“Yes. She was very adamant about that. Would that interest you? I imagine you could charge her whatever you pleased.”

“Oh… yes, of course… ! What an opportunity!”

“I’m glad you see it that way,” Ester beams at him, then clasps her hands together. “Now then, why don’t you come inside so that I can pay you for _this_ reading.”

“Oh, please, that’s not necessary.” Asra waves a hand, then scoops up the reading. “Just letting me set up here is more than enough.”

“_Psh_, you’ll not convince me, Magician. I must repay an expense of mana for my sake… and I happen to have a set of pronoun chokers I think you might be interested in.”

Asra lets out a short whistle. “I might,” he admits.

The shop owner chuckles heartily in response, “it’ll be my subtle way of leaning on the question. After all, it’s been ages since we caught up.” 

“Right… that’s my fault.”

“Nonsense. It’s not as though I’ve ever visited _you_ at home.”

“No… Well, nothing much has changed for me, regarding terms of reference. Anything will do just fine.”

“And I still use _she, hers_, so forth,” Ester stands and stretches. She begins to move away from the alcove, to return to the front door. “Leave your things or pack them, then come along inside.”

So he packs away his set-up swiftly, and goes along inside. Just according to the plan; following behind Ester without any apparent clue.

Ester has already retrieved the items from a drawer by the time his eyes adjust to the inside of the unlit shop.

She offers a choice of three chokers. Outwardly, their appearance is the same. Yellow gold with curving letters, spelling out singular pronouns. In the abstract, however, they all resonate a separate aura.

“Each with their own attunement,” Ester confirms, while Asra inspects them atop the counter.

Two seem callous against his peaceful magic, but one echoes fragility. A quiet harbour. _Sanctuary_; the idle thought pulses through him, like a message from Faust.

“This one,” he reaches for it. Anxious fingers still upon contact with the sanctuary charm. The polished gold feels cool and warm at the same time. Parched and moist, and boiling cold. 

“Take it.”

“Thank you… really, thank you so much. I love it.”

Ester waits with quiet patience as he jimmies it into a comfortable place. 

“So when is a good day for you to give the Countess’ private reading? Nadia suggested after midnight, but I understand if that’s asking too much of you…”

“No, after midnight is good.”

“I will arrange a date for you.”

“Sure…”

“Now, then,” Ester then reaches both hands out to him. “Asra. Please, tell me how you’re feeling.”

“…huh?” 

“Have you noticed anything different about yourself since the Masquerade?” 

She must be talking about the ritual.

“…should I be?

“_No_. Absolutely not. And if you have, you should tell me right now.” 

The fingers of Ester’s outstretched hands curl and unfurl, beckoning Asra to take them in his own. 

Tentatively, he reaches one hand out to Ester. Reminders of joining hands for the ritual circle bears down upon him strangely. 

“Tell me how you’re feeling, please.”

“Well, right now…? Kind of just embarrassed…” 

Ester barks a laugh. “How wholesome.” 

Asra softens, growing even more embarrassed. His arm twitches back, so Ester releases her hold.

“Now, Asra. Tell me, please. What did you see there? Anything troubling?”

“I already… processed it. It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just… different, a darker magic. It’s not as if I didn’t know that kind of magic exists…”

“So, you haven’t considered returning? Or experienced some unexplained urges? No desires to grant some lost souls with a false rebirth?”

“No…”

“Well. Inform me immediately if that changes. There are common symptoms which might escape your notice. Helheim is subtle in that way. I have a book on it, actually; I’ll lend you- can you read Lorim?”

“_Heh?_ Yeah… Yes, I can read.”

Ester scans one of many bookshelves and plucks out a thick tome. She holds the cover out to Asra, allowing him a few seconds to take in the winding tree branches and roots embossed onto it, before flicking to the index.

“Please don’t mistake my concern for doubt,” Ester says as she turns pages, “I’m very impressed by your resolve. It takes a certain kind of will to face the void and manage it alone.”

“Well, I wasn’t really alone... I have someone to talk to.” 

Regarding voids, Magician has been cryptic at best. A sign that all is as it should be, perhaps; since cryptic mischief is Magician’s specialty. Anything to get your critical thinkers flowing. 

After Magician’s withering advice, Asra played the night back over in his oh so _reliable_ Inner Mind Theatre… about a hundred times. Each loop paints him more and more as the innocent lamb. Blindly following a cunning raptor, while their pack schemes in shadow. 

Asra takes a steadying breath and asks the question he’s been dreading most. “Did Anri just need another body for the ritual?” His voice wavers embarrassingly. “Is that the only reason…” 

The deep pity in Ester’s eyes cuts short whatever sentence he tries stringing together. She shakes her head after a moment of silence passes. 

“If anybody _needed_ a body for the ritual, it would have been Kjetil… or Lucio, depending on how you look at it. None of them visit here very often, though.”

Ester smiles thinly, handing Asra the book. Already open to a specific page.

“I think this chapter can answer most of your questions about the kind of gateway we created. You may return here to read it indoors, if you don’t fancy lugging it around with you. My sons, Shiloh or Benedikt, will happily let you into the reading room… _ah_, bother. You’re not afraid of rats, are you?”

“…rats?”

“Shiloh… bless him, the dear, he adopted some rats. Three darling little brown rats, so young and mischievous, but,” Ester laughs nervously, “_three_ quickly turned into _seven_, which turned into twenty-five, which turned into… ah, they move too quickly to count. Shiloh built them a series of mazes out of pipes and they seem content to live in those, but we’ve lost… a _great_ number of customers because of these rats.” 

As she speaks, Ester moves to the far side of the shop and draws back a heavy curtain. A doorway reveals behind it. “Of course, I’m far happier indulging my son’s interests than serving customers who cannot handle their magic without exponential rats... The problem lies, as most problems do, these days; with _the plague_. Whether or not rats _are_ spreading the disease, the townsfolk are suspicious.”

“Well, um… I do have a snake…” Asra scratches at his head, feeling vulgar for even thinking what he was about to suggest, “and she… you know… does need to _eat_, and such like,” he waves a nervous hand. “If you need some of them to disappear?” His attempt at laughter is merely a few sharp inhales if anything.

Ester nods encouragingly. “That may be suitable. I think at this point even Shiloh is getting overwhelmed.” 

She guides Asra into the adjacent room. Storage boxes and shelves are pushed to the walls, making space for a circular desk. There are tubes on all the walls, housing blurs of a rat colony. Ester wasn’t underestimating… 

A figure kneels by the desk, focused on a sketchbook. 

“Shiloh?” 

They glance over, too quickly to notice Asra beside their mother, before immediately returning to their drawing. Their appearance bears striking resemblance to Benedikt, but with longer, shaggier hair.

“Hiya~” Speaking down into their sketchbook, their soft voice muffles against pages.

“Benedikt isn’t with you?” Ester checks the corners of the room.

“No,” Shiloh sighs, “he’s still in bed.”

“Still?” 

“He hasn’t even eaten anything today. Says he’s not in the mood... I think he’s depressed.”

Ester clears her throat. “We have a guest, dear.” 

Shiloh glances up again, making wide eyes at Asra before narrowing them sharply. Asra waves awkwardly.

“Customer?” Shiloh stands to inspect him closely. 

Ester tilts her head. “Colleague… Keep them company while I check on Benedikt?”

Shiloh nods, but turns around and sits back down at the small central table. Ester parts with a reassuring pat on Asra’s shoulder. Her footsteps retreat to climb the nearby staircase.

Asra sniffles, glancing down at the remarkably heavy tome in his hands. 

The cover bears a tree design, its roots winding between cracked circles below, while branches support whole circles above. Without much else to do, he pages through to the marked entry.

“So, mum’s teaching you about the Nine Worlds?” Shiloh peers over Asra's shoulder, having moved closer without Asra noticing. Shiloh crosses back to the other side of the room. His footsteps make no sound against the stone floor.

Asra shuffles toward him and the table as he passes it. “Oh. Yeah, you can sit,” Shiloh chuckles. “If you keep your distance.”

Resting the book open on the small table, Asra settles across from Shiloh. He tries to focus on the text. Despite himself, he steals a glance at the paper Shiloh is working over. 

He catches the general gist of a blueprint before Shiloh has tucked it away, fixing him with a glare. 

“Don’t look at people’s private notes. That’s rude.” 

Shiloh glares at Asra, drawing out a meager, “_sorry_,” from the magician. “I didn’t really see anything, though.”

“It’s still rude. Mind your own business.”

“It was just a quick glance, really, I didn’t see what you were working on…”

Shiloh scowls at him, “you’re so defensive.”

Asra scoffs. “You aren’t?”

“Yes, by nature!” Shiloh’s quiet voice breaks with nasty laughter. Rats scurry noisily through the tunnels, responding to his pitching snaps. “But this is where I live, so I have a right to be defensive when a stranger comes in trying to plagiarize my secret designs.”

“I promise you, I’m not trying to steal anything… Your mum just invited me in and… and then she gave me this book…”

“_Likely_ story. You’ve been lurking out back, setting up your silly little fantasy booth for years and _only now_ you decide to take an interest? You want me to think it’s got _nothing to do with my secret designs_?”

“Really…?” Asra stammers, exasperation running high. “I didn’t even… know you were… I don’t even know you. I’m not trying to steal stuff. Your mum just wanted a reading, you’re being paranoi-”

“I’m not paranoid. The Count’s been sending spies to poke around here every other week, and _you_ look like you’d be foolish enough to do whatever the Count says for a spare coin.”

Asra rears back, as frustration peaks into genuine offense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Shiloh bites his tongue. "..._Nothing~_"

Asra pinches temples, rubbing out a tiny headache before dipping back into the conversation. 

“Do you have a problem with me or something…?”

Shiloh is quiet for a moment, then shakes his head. “Just being careful.”

“If you insist…” Asra relents.

“I’m **not** paranoid,” Shiloh asserts again. 

“Yeah, sure, okay.” Asra sighs, lifting up the tome and pretending to read. “And _I’m_ not a thief.” His coy smirk is, thankfully, concealed behind the massive book in his hands. He holds still, if only to settle Shiloh’s suspicions. The other must sense Asra’s shift in energy, as he also falls silent while Asra ostensibly reads.

Try as he might, stare though he will; he cannot parse any of the sentences in the book. 

It isn’t every day he is assigned a reading by such an advanced magician, however; so he fully intends to commit. For however many _decades_ it will take to get through this entire book. Or perhaps… he can just set it aside for now…

Rustling from within the room distracts him from his weak attempt at remaining focused. 

He cautiously throws his gaze around the room, and sees Shiloh facing the far wall. Curiosity gets the better of him, compelling him to continue watching.

Shiloh lifts a stick to the wall, taking notes of certain measurements and circling the room. Asra’s gaze flicks back to the as yet unread chapter whenever Shiloh turns to face him. He flips a page to keep up the facade, absorbing absolutely nothing written in the tome. 

After a span of minutes, footsteps carry Ester back into the room. Her second son, Benedikt, trails agitatedly behind.

“Hello, Asra,” Benedikt announces, then steps backward and whispers aside to his mother, “okay I did it, can I go back upstairs now?”

Ester merely raises her eyebrows at him.

“You’ll have time to keep writing afterwords, darling. Taking a short break now might even help to re-invigorate you…” 

Benedikt grumbles something under his breath.

“It’s alright,” Asra shrugs, “I already met Benedikt at the Masquerade.”

Ester giggles, “yes, I’m sure you have met _Benedikt-at-the-Masquerade_, but have you met _Benedikt-at-home_?”

With a heavy sigh, Benedikt enters the room and takes a seat beside Asra. Ester smiles at them both. 

“Yeah, hi, I’m a completely different person now,” Benedikt stretches out, craning his neck to peer over Asra’s shoulder. “So~ What’cha~ readin’~?”

Asra turns the cover of the book toward him. “Something your mum loaned me…”

Benedikt turns to stare at Ester accusingly. “You’re already forcing them to study? Hey, mum? Just ‘cause you can boss us around, doesn’t mean you can do it to random street kids. They aren’t your son, you know?”

Ester purses her lips, before speaking gently. “I don’t think they’re _any body's_ son, dear.”

Benedikt rolls his eyes.

“Well, she’s right about that,” Asra giggles. _For two reasons…_

“Ben’s right, Mum,” Shiloh joins the conversation, stepping into the room from the kitchen. 

Asra’s forced to double-take, eyes flicking to the corner which he last saw Shiloh in, and back; confirming that the boy had indeed left the room and returned, Asra just didn’t see or hear it happen. 

Shiloh carries a small bowl of fruits, which he places by Benedikt on the table and not-so-subtly pushes them closer to his younger twin. “You can’t adopt this… person,” he continues. “If you like having three children, don’t send Esriel away.”

Ester frowns at Shiloh, expression tense. She glances to Asra, then to Benedikt, before fixing Shiloh with a disappointed stare. 

“You know Esriel’s decision to leave is his own.” Her tone is clipped and low.

“Only because you scared him with all that ranting about the plague, Ma,” Benedikt chimes in. “What was it you said? Vesuvia’s _bearing the damned~_” Benedikt picks through the fruit bowl as he mocks, selecting various ones to arrange on the table. 

“_Bearing with devils so damned they were exiled from hell itself,_” Shiloh quotes at the wall. 

“Please, you two - not while we have company?” Ester rubs circles around her temples. “Or at least wait until I’ve left the room to start mocking the delicate sensibilities of your own _dear Mother_,” she steps away with that, making to leave the room. “Well, I have business at the Palace. Are there any deliveries to take?” 

“No. Elouan took them last night.” 

“Very well, then. I’ll be back late. Will one of you be here to close up?”

“Yeah,” Shiloh and Benedikt confirm in the exact same tone at the exact same time. Ester chuckles delightedly at the pair. 

“And, will you be nice to Asra while I’m out?” 

Benedikt’s shrug is comically overdone as he rises from the table, retreating back upstairs. 

Shiloh, meanwhile, chimes ominously, “no promises~!”

“Well, alright,” Ester sighs, turning to address Asra. “They’re just teasing, pay it no mind. Asra. I’ll schedule your reading with Princess Nadia, then? You’re sure you have no preference for the day? Or… night?”

Asra nods his agreement in a hurry, at somewhat of a loss for words. 

“Then I’ll return for you once we’ve scheduled the date.”

  
\+ ~ + ~ +

  
There isn’t much for a native Vesuvian street urchin to understand about the Princess of a foreign country. Other than her esteemed heritage, considerably little is confirmed about Nadia Satrinava by Vesuvia’s homeless population. Of what little Asra does know, however; two things stand out. 

First, that in the year since her arrival, nothing in Vesuvia has changed.

Second, which has yet to sink all the way through Asra’s skull: she wants a private reading from him. The Countess’s fortune, told in the Palace gardens. Tonight, past midnight.

With the full moon already high in the sky, Asra feels a tug of destiny guiding his hand. Faust accompanies him through the streets, to the Palace entrance.

Where a young servant in a sleek night-guard uniform awaits. 

“Good evening,” the servant nods. “Are you the Fortune-teller?”

“Yes. That’s me.”

“Name?”

“Asra… the Magician.”

The guard nods. “Excellent. We’ve set up in the Countess’ feature garden. This way, please.”

Faust follows out of sight, while Asra walks beside his guide. They are led through newly renovated courtyards. Along a route notably similar to Anri’s path to the ritual site.

Pits of dirt from that night have since been lain with pipes and paved. Beautiful statues and fountain structures guard every corner. Pathways have been lain with stones, while fresh buds wait for the coming spring. Tools and equipment of different sorts still lay about randomly, but the general design of the space shows more clearly than it did two months prior. 

The Countess is waiting by an enormous water feature. The only one which seems to flow, just yet, as the others stand dry and empty. Faust immediately dives in. 

“Good evening, Asra. Welcome,” Countess Nadia smiles in greeting.

Asra lifts the hemline of his skirt to bow, proud and low. Nadia nods once in courtesy, then again to Asra’s escort.

“Thank you for escorting my guest, Ludovico. Please, enjoy the rest of your night. You are dismissed,” Nadia smiles politely to the guard. Who bows respectfully, and departs with a formal farewell.

Leaving Asra alone with the Countess.

Asra swallows hard, willing his nerves to settle.

“There are two things I’d like to say before we begin, Magician. Firstly, I must thank you for agreeing to meet me in privacy. I am well aware that it is more customary for a, well, for a customer, to visit your set-up on your own terms. So I am compelled to acknowledge your resolve. Second of all, being an acknowledgment of my own privilege, for being able to request this.”

Asra nods along, smiling brightly. Nadia’s grace is one thing, but her confident, unbroken speech is entirely another. Asra finds he’s still nodding absently, even after she stops and looks to him expectantly.

“Oh! Right, of course… milady. Your privilege is my honour… That you’d even take notice of someone so, um,” he hesitates, catching sudden stern disgust in the Countess’ features. Enough to stall his line of thought.

“Is this… a common manner for the lower castes to speak to their leaders? Always with such hesitant deference?”

“I… Um…”

“You don’t know how to speak to me, do you?”

Asra pauses awkwardly before shaking his head. He might as well be honest… even if she’ll hang him for the disrespect.

“Because of my birth status, correct? It’s not that you aren’t a capable speaker, just that you doubt your usual manner is sufficient in my presence?” 

Asra shrinks, nodding curtly.

“I wonder. Is this my shortcoming, or just your own? I don’t know what to tell you, Asra. You don’t need to speak to me any differently… Unless you are prone to cursing out your conversation partners?” Nadia chuckles, “then I would ask you to adjust.” Her shoulders relax, inviting less formality. Though she seems incapable of truly dropping her regal posture. “Just… tell me what you’re thinking about, perhaps. What’s on your mind?”

Asra hesitates, so Nadia continues calmly, “what do you think of the garden?”

“Um,” Asra blinks at the Countess, still shocked. She seems… genuine, in her attempts to ease him, though. 

He takes a breath. “Is… This is where we performed the ritual, isn’t it? At the last Masquerade?” 

“It is.”

Asra glances around. “Are all these pools going to be water features?” 

His magic surges in presence of the central fountain alone. Though there isn’t as much running water as there soon may be, with so many of the fountain pools currently dry. 

“In time,” Nadia remains at a distant. Her patience warms. “First, we must construct several aqueducts from here to the coast. I have a great many projects I’d like to implement here. To optimize this land and ensure that we can guarantee sustenance for everybody who calls Vesuvia their home. The first step is clean running water. I believe having access to such will reduce the number of the red plague’s victims by half. Failing that… providing them with some measure of comfort in those final moments… is ultimately worth the effort. If it can help them even slightly.”

“So… you really do want to help people?”

“Is that in doubt?” Nadia sighs heavily. “Yes. _Of course_ I want to help people. Especially the people of Vesuvia, now that I am responsible for their care. Naturally, there are obstacles to this which I am priming to overcome.”

Asra nods, but remains distant. Many leaders claim as such, when in the company of their _lowest castes_. Asra wills away his bitterness.

“Is this the root of your query, tonight?”

“Yes, it is. Aren’t you sharp? To the reading: I seek simplicity. Clarity. I have_ no patience_ left for any intelligence which intends to misguide me.”

“How about a one-card reading, then?” Asra suggests.

Nadia nods. “How perfectly straight-forward. Shall we?” She gestures to a low marble bench-top set into the fountain-side. A generous bag of coins waits atop it. 

The pair of them take seats opposite each other.

Faust makes no great effort to conceal herself. She retreats from the chilly pool water, slithering back to Asra’s side. 

Asra retrieves his deck and parchments from his satchel, as Faust noses her way back into the pouch of heated rocks. 

While Nadia writes out her query, Asra shuffles the deck. Energies re-disperse, flowing along pathways through Asra’s body.

Fresh ink has dried upon parchment before thrice-lain piles of three are selectively reversed, and shuffled. The final attunement presents a top-most card, which Asra slides away from the deck and places face-up on the table between them.

The image is that of a bear-headed figure, shrouded in a long dark cloak. “The Hermit,” Asra introduces. The bear-man carry a shepard’s cane, from which a lit lantern hangs. 

“Such beautiful artwork,” Nadia purrs. “Did you draw that yourself?” 

Asra nods absently; closing their eyes to better hear the Hermit’s voice. 

_A pity. She has been forced to isolate herself_, Hermit says softly.

“Have you an exceptional skill!” Nadia declares, tone bright but distracting. The Hermit’s whispers fracture.

Asra swallows and nods, smiling patiently. “Thank you,” he rest a finger on the card, willing himself back into the necessary head-space. Nadia stretches across the table to take hold of Asra’s hand. Essence of her magical energies flow through the point of contact. 

A warm breeze passes over Asra’s forearms, and seemingly burrows under skin. Wind rushes though their veins. Like throwing open windows in a musty attic soul, airing out doubts left lingering since childhood. 

Asra inhales evenly, and refocuses on the Hermit arcanum. Nadia takes a breath in tandem.

“You… are forging a new path,” Asra lends Hermit their voice. “A spiritual, and righteous, but lonely path. You will stand alone in your true goals, for many years. You will struggle. You may suffer. All the while you do so, you will long for someone’s comfort and support. That longing will isolate you, but also keep you focused. You are wise enough, to let your focus devour your loneliness. A perpetual cycle of lonely consumption. You will stand alone, strong in solitude.”

Asra glances to Nadia, reading her expression half as well as he reads the cards. “Do you… recognize any truth?”

“Nothing but,” Nadia notes evenly. 

“The Hermit believes in you. As much as you believe in yourself, Countess. I think your quest for progress is the most authentic amongst your peers… though you do stand alone. Definitely, you can trust yourself.”

“Then,” Nadia nods with regal confidence, “I shall continue doing so… How comforting. Thank you dearly, Magician. I feel a rejuvenation of strength flow through me. And with it, inspiration for projects long abandoned… I expect I’ll spend some weeks in contemplation… I may even be able to rest peacefully tonight… or tomorrow night, perhaps. It’s unlikely that my mind will shut down tonight.”

Nadia gazes freely up at the open sky. Asra shares the view briefly, but finds the Countess a remarkably more unique vision to behold. After a moment of contemplative star-gazing, Nadia exhales.

“What would you be doing at this hour, if I hadn’t asked you to meet me?” She half-turns toward Asra to pose the question, then lifts her chin back to the sky.

“Probably… Well, probably sleeping,” Asra giggles. Sleeping, or traveling. “I am glad to be here, though.”

“That is heartening to know. I find myself constantly fretting over the comfort of my employees… even when it complicates matters. It’s only natural to care, though. Isn’t it?”

“If I may, Your Excellency… You might be one of few born rulers to believe in that.”

Nadia is quiet for a moment before nodding. She closes her eyes, seeking inner solace before her entire demeanor shifts. 

She relaxes, spreading out along the bench as she leans into a full-body stretch. Bones creak, then she stands. Lifting her skirts in one hand, she gestures kindly to Asra with the other.

“Would you like to take a walk through the gardens with me?” Nadia offers with a warm smile. “I quite enjoy conversing with you, but this kind of talk demands us to be strolling about aimlessly, wouldn’t you agree?” Her warmth lightens to a cooling breeze, and the weather changes with it. As though her mood commands it. 

Or, as though they are attuned.

“I’d love to see more of the gardens,” Asra admits. He was supposed to be here to work, but it seems… perhaps, instead…

He has found a friend?

“Oh, I hope to build _wonders_ in this place…!” Nadia beckons open arms toward the garden. Spinning in place, so she can gesture to every angle of the site. “When I spoke of contemplation… I was referring not only to a state of mind, but also to that tower up there. My personal tower of contemplation - the first construct I contracted upon my arrival here. A little piece of home…”

Asra smiles at the wistful distance in Nadia’s eyes. She points out the structure, and begins strolling toward it. Asra falls into step beside her.

“This garden begins and ends with my tower. There are a series of waterfalls in the top-most chamber - where I dwell in contemplation, often for days at a time. Each one will eventually connect to an aqueduct, leading to the various districts of the city. From that room, I can test and purify each stream. I will be able to sample the water that each district receives, to ensure its quality,” Nadia moves through the construction space with quiet confidence as she explains.

“The designs are a compilation of key inspirations from childhood. Lucio has given me absolute reign of the garden’s designs, and I find more and more ways to express myself in these spaces. There are so many experiments I can conduct here, with all this land... Take this: See these ferns…? They aren’t commonly seen in this climate. However, their leaves attracts a native species of beetle. They come to shed their winter shells here. A very wonderful insect… oh, you can see just here- one of their empty casings.”

She points them out - a littering of hollow, iridescent shells. Asra bends into the underbrush to take a closer look. “These casings are lined with a very fine crystalline structure. Which, once mixed with soil and rain-water from this region, creates a sort-of natural paste. Rain storms mix and spread the paste, and sunlight hardens it to an earthen crust. And it’s this _crust_ which I am truly after…”

Asra strokes a finger across the stony crust of earth. The smooth red surface looks very much like the sands of the Red Plains regions, except it is entirely solid. In the moonlight, it reflects an oily sheen.

“This crust bakes everything inside under heat of the sun. As it cooks, it makes a small meal of the insects and roots within. Now, you get to see my favourite part of this entire venture!” Nadia smacks a heavy metal ring into the crust, leaving clean fractures across the surface. She scratches at the crevasses with gloved fingernails, and eventually pulls out the root of one plant. 

Snapping off clumps of crusty clay, Nadia then offers Asra a thick, stripy, sun-baked cactus root.

“This one looks delicious, if you’ll be so bold as to try it?”

First the Countess gives him a giant bag of gold for doing what he loves most… and now she’s offering him a bizarre food substance he’s never tried before…?

“Did I just fall in love?” Asra thinks.

“Excuse me?”

_Oh... oops._

“I’d love to try it!” Asra quickly snatches up the root, tucking it to his chest before the Countess can change her mind. She chuckles delightedly at him.

“One might think you’ve an eating disorder, my dear; with that sort of reaction.” Nadia frowns at him candidly. “Tell me, truly… what was it like to grow up here in Vesuvia? Did you and your folks have enough to sustain you?”

Asra blinks at her. He breathes in the scent of the sun-dried cactus, savouring its sweet tang. 

“Please, be honest with me. What is life here like for people of your caste?”

Asra hesitates. He slowly bites into the cactus, chewing it at a glacial pace. Nadia waits patiently while he puts off answering. Eventually, he sighs and looks away.

“I… saw a lot of bodies... starved in the streets… when I was younger… After Lucio came into power, he-” 

_It’s a trap!_ Asra clenches his jaw, panic seizing him. _I’m not supposed to speak poorly of him- _

_Run away! She’ll execute you for impudence! _

His fingernails dig anxiously into the cactus. Nadia watches with saintly patience. “It must have been very difficult for you, Asra,” she touches a motherly hand to his. 

It freezes him in place.

“Look at me, please.”

He does. Her eyes house a deep well of honest, powerful love within. A love so strong, it bears a kind of energy on its own. 

“I’m sorry, Asra. I believe you are one of many whom my fellows in power have hurt. Have… _failed_. But… You can count on me to remedy this. It’s my _duty_ to push past these boundaries, now…” 

Nadia settles herself, then turns back to Asra with a fire in her loving crimson eyes. “I don’t know how concerned I should be, but all my projects… the resources I need for them are never prioritized. They are dismissed, or my sensibilities insulted, instead of progress being made. It’s… _testing_ my patience. Really, it is.”

Asra nibbles on the cactus root, listening to the Countess share her thoughts. They flow tangentially, as Nadia relaxes into Asra’s company. The pair stand together, resuming their walk.

“I am not an angry person. I have _met_ angry people before, and I thought that I knew how they ticked, but… Well. I cannot always be correct, of course. Sometimes, even I must be fooled, in order to learn a valuable lesson.”

The Countess cants her head, regarding Asra intimately. Her demeanor softens visibly.

“It’s funny,” she hums. “I think I can trust you already. If I can trust _myself_… then I want to confide in you. And since I _can_ trust myself… I believe I _do_ trust you.”

“Didn’t you just say that… you can’t always be correct?”

“Yes, I did.”

“So, wouldn’t that mean you _shouldn’t_ trust me so quickly?”

“On the contrary… I think. It’s how I know that I _can_.”

Asra falls silent. Of all the things that he’d anticipated happening tonight, gaining the Countess’ confidence was not one of them.

_And yet…_

The Countess steps closer, her inspection crossing into admirable scrutiny. Asra drops the cactus snack to his side, averting sustained eye contact.

“Your bone structure is truly exquisite.” She reaches out with one hand, fingers curling gently as she gestures to touch his jawline. “May I?”

Asra blushes, nodding.

Careful fingers grip his chin, leading it to the left and right so as to inspect the curves of his face. “Stunning,” she breathes, and releases her hold. “Such a curious thing about my life: Whenever I think I find somebody worth falling in love with… I soon grow utterly bored. I only ever want to touch and taste complete strangers… isn’t that odd?” She chuckles at herself, hand brushing down Asra’s arm with a firm confidence.

Asra shrugs, “I don’t think it’s weird to be attracted to strangers.”

“No… But, wouldn’t it be completely out of line if I asked to kiss you?” Nadia’s cheerful smile paints an entirely non-threatening presence, but Asra’s certain the desire goes beyond attraction. There is something hungry and dominant in the wide open windows of Nadia’s crimson soul.

Asra bites a lip, stepping away. “I didn’t realise you were shopping for a sex worker.”

“Oh!” Nadia’s confidence instantly melts away, “no, not at all. The only service I request is a tarot reading. I do apologise if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable… **profusely**. Would you like to leave? You will of course still be paid you for the reading. Double, even.”

“It’s alright, milady,” Asra clears his throat. Trying to match her eloquence is a fool’s task, but he still feels inclined to. “You didn’t cause me any discomfort, only that I didn’t expect you to be so forward with me.”

Nadia grins heartily. “I do have a tendency to be bold…”

“It’s admirable,” Asra smiles weakly. 

“But not invited?”

“Not… really. I uh, prefer the chase?” He chuckles to himself, cheeks burning redder still.

“I can relate.” Nadia squints fondly. “I was just considering… that you are beautiful. That the sky is full of mystery… and however does the moonlight swathe your skin in such a pristine beam of energy.”

“_Magic~_” Asra laughs. Nadia joins, ringing little bells of joy.

“You must tell me your secrets. What I wouldn’t do to make such an impression as you do.”

Asra pauses. “I make an impression?”

“Anri seemed to think so,” Nadia lifts a careful eyebrow. Then mischievous ideas tug the corners of her lips. “He was more candid than I’ve ever seen before, when speaking of you. If… you don’t mind my asking, what exactly did he do wrong?”

“… _'Wrong’?_” Asra cants his head.

“Anri said that he ‘made a mistake’? I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he wouldn’t elaborate.”

“Oh…” Asra shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know…”

“I see. Should I stall this line of questioning?” 

Asra shrugs awkwardly, mind elsewhere. Nadia easily segues the conversation.

“I am ever so restless, these days,” she exasperates. “And so very _riled **up**_. It’s actually frustrating… not that I’ve ever been truly frustrated in my life. I simply… figured Lucio for the darnedest fool. I did not expect to be running about trying to settle my competitions with the man before he’d let me merely _rebuild an orphanage_. It’s like he _wants_ to see the lower castes suffering,” she sneers, before reeling her expression back.

Listening to Nadia speak so openly settles Asra in a peaceful balance. He’s never felt this kind of trust in a leader before. No figure of power has ever made herself so approachable.

It actually ignites a genuine trust in her sought-after progress. 

“Lucio’s not letting you rebuild the orphanage?”

“He… has found so many other _more important_ tasks to complete beforehand. And with the support of his Courtiers behind him… Well. While I have been appointed the overseer of the orphanage’s reconstruction, Lucio has also been keeping me rather busy assisting his _other_ projects. So, so many other projects. I want to get it all done, of course; I don’t mind hard work. I rather enjoy it… but I have grown rather stressed this past year in Vesuvia. It’s not been quite what I expected, and I… Well, I honestly did not think my expectations were especially high, to begin with.

“See… When I first met Lucio, I thought he was an absolute delight. So charming. A dainty, golden beauty with a heart of righteous desire. Now… I have seen how much effort he expends… to _appear_ as such. While others care for the kingdom, he cares for himself. For his image. Yet.. we are supposed to be minding the politicians. Strategizing progress... _Caring_ for the population!

“Instead, we party. We spend our time _looking good_, and that honestly seems to satisfy Lucio.” Nadia frowns at the ground as she walks.

Asra listens carefully.

“I am not so easily satisfied, Asra. All my life, I have wrestled with appearances. My greatest enemy is the person who I _appear_ to be.” Nadia glances toward him, slowing her pace. “…Who is that woman? Is she a tyrant? Is she such a mystery, veiled by rumour? I have been trapped in a battle with this woman all my life... Yet, I cannot answer, still: **Who is she?**”

“Anyone’s appearance can be misleading, milady," Asra finds himself replying candidly, regardless of potential consequence. "Some people rely on it. Others, fight it. I don’t think anyone can assume too much of you without getting _something_ wrong. It’s the same for anyone.”

Nadia observes him coolly. The ghost of a distant smile haunts her hesitant features. “Then, I suppose we must get to know one another better?”

Asra nods, surprised by his own smiling comfort. “So it would seem…”

“Listen. Asra,” Nadia’s expression shifts just slightly, her seriousness perked with mirth. “_Asra_… of House Magician?”

Asra giggles at the joke, nodding and waving on Nadia to continue.

“I have one weakness to admit. Which I’ll tell you if you can swear it to secrecy.”

“Sure… yes. Uh, of course, milady.” 

“On the other hand, should you dare betray my confidence: I’ll take that exquisite head of yours.” Her lips quirk daintily. “Oh… Please believe that, that was a joke… Regardless. My one weakness? You swear to guard it?”

Asra nods, lifting a hand to his heart to better show the devotion he offers. “I swear by my heart, for my head’s sake,” he grins.

Nadia returns the smile in earnest, nodding and carrying on with confidence. 

“So, here it is. The one shortcoming of my upbringing: It has left me somewhat out of touch with… the lower castes?”

Asra quirks a bemused eyebrow.

“Oh, now,” Nadia waves a hand. “See? I don’t even know how to refer to them without inadvertent insult. I know very little of their customs, their dialects, and writing styles; I have _absolutely no way_ to communicate with confidence. I’m too out of depth, and so keenly aware. My conversation partners, too, have seemed _keenly_ aware.” 

Nadia pauses for breath, taking her time to wander toward an entrance to the hedge maze. “I know our lives have been so different. That I have been afforded every necessity only becomes more obvious to me, when I see the way of life here. However; Offering the Vesuvian people what _I, personally_, hold dear? It only… rubs salt into this wounded land,” Nadia chuckles delicately, “and I have no desire to salt the land.” 

Asra nods, running a hand against the maze’s floral walls. Nadia maintains a tempered pace.

“Unfortunately, I do not understand what the common people here truly value. Especially members of the dock’s gangs. Whenever I offer them something in earnest, they still wish to do me harm. For my upbringing, and I… well, I think it’s such a pity they’ve had to live this way. I want to help them find a place under my wing. More than that… I want to _secure_ that place for them. I want to fortify and foster community; to truly show my worth through giving. I know it’s possible… Even while never forcing someone to restrain the natural desire to be selfish.”

Nadia turns her full body to face him, then. In absolute seriousness. “I know my dreams are possible, Asra… but only under very specific circumstances. I’ve mapped these circumstances, after studying the downfalls of history, and I believe I can bring comfort to every citizen of Vesuvia. I will not rest until I have given it my very best effort. So first, I must orchestrate my specific circumstances.

“The first of which is that I have a _desperate_ need for information. Ongoing, **reliable** information, from someone I can trust… Did I mention, Asra, how I believe that I can trust you?” She nods to him, paying her utmost respects in the gesture. “Do you catch my meaning?” 

With a pause to let the words sink in - but not too long a pause - Nadia tilts her chin to look Asra in the eyes. Hungry red irises meet his own yearning lavenders. 

The Countess leads him with her gaze, then along with her words. “I’d like to see you more often if you might be so inclined to meet me again. I could even grant you free roam of the Palace grounds… and in exchange for the freedom to wander and leave as you desire: Simply share your insights with me often, in the future. Or perhaps, even… sharing with me, some _curious events_ you coincide whilst freely roaming. When nobody… expects you to be there.”

“You’re… asking me to… to _spy_ for you?”

Nadia rolls her eyes fondly. “I am offering you a role as my… private Medium. Will you take it? It will be, for you, like joining a company of merchant traders. You’ll receive coin and privileges at the Palace. In exchange, you’ll provide me with an income of information. Such that I cannot gather on my own.”

“I can also see the benefit in that,” Asra agrees with a smile. Nadia nods once with satisfaction, settling into a peaceful quiet. 

Bright chirping of an early-rising bird peeps at the first light of dawn. 

Asra gazes up at the tree-line, to the dark morning sky, then back to his trustworthy Countess. Who very quietly rotates in place. 

Asra watches her features twist curiously. Her smile trickles in from miles away. 

“Do you… _hear_ that?”

Very faint tunes of a song drift over the pair. Asra tilts an ear to the darkness… to be greeted by a singer’s note, echoing deeper in the maze.

“You do as well? Yes, there is somebody singing…” Nadia nods to herself, following the mysterious voice into the hedge maze.

“What language is that…?” Asra ponders, wandering close behind.

“It sounds… uh, I don’t want to guess at this, actually… it sounds… well, _nonsense_. Those phonetics are difficult to place. _Hm_,” Nadia’s analysis fades as she draws closer to the source. She turns through the maze with absolute confidence - like the route is clearly mapped in mind.

Asra stays close to her side, wary of becoming lost. 

The singing grows louder as they approach the heart of the maze; but no less coherent. 

Eventually they enter a statue garden at the central courtyard. A spindly figure twirls throughout, carrying a tune on foreign lyrics.

“…Doctor Devorak?” Nadia laughs in delight. “Is that you?” 

The singer’s arms reach toward a tall statue of a burly swordsman before Nadia’s voice startles him into a face-plant. He’s upright quick as a flash, dusting himself off and bowing to the Princess. 

“Nadia! Princess!” The man’s voice cracks with embarrassment, “Princess Nadia! Countess? Uh, what do I… oh, you’re… are you… whose-”

“’Nadia’ is fine-”

“What language was that?” Asra interrupts, derailing the singer’s stammering.

“Well now, who’s _this_ handsome dove?” Doctor Devorak quirks a brow._ Perhaps an attempt to look charming?_ Combined with the fresh dirt on his cheek and dry grass still caught in his wild red mane; he merely looks confused.

In a strange way though… his confusion is especially charming. If only Asra didn’t fluster so easily; he could have chimed in that they’ve met before. Instead of turning bright red. Like a damn fool. 

“_This handsome dove_ was just telling me not to be so forward with her.”

“Is that possibly because,” the doctor is also quicker to respond, gaze fixed to Asra’s reaction, “she prefers it… backwards?”

Asra blushes deeper.

Nadia snorts. “Oh, my _god_, Ilya… I’m _cringing_… That doesn’t even mean anything!” Her chuckling is far from mockery. Ilya joins in laughing at his own expense. 

“Alright, but I never said I was good at flirting… maybe I’m just,” Ilya swoons dramatically, “too distracted by her radiant beauty.”

“How sincere,” Nadia mocks. “Would you still be interested once you learn that Asra here is a magician?”

“…Asra? Oh, right! Hello… But yeah, right, _magic, ri~ight_, hah. Nah. Yeah, that’s… still,” the doctor hums, “something? I guess illusions are cool. Sometimes. Maybe. If… if you squint.”

“Well, uh,” Asra frowns. “I’m not an illusionist.”

“The Arcane Arts are so much broader than _illusions_, Ilya.” Nadia speaks firmly. “You’re only limiting yourself when you limit your thinking in such regard.”

“Well, anyway,” Ilya deflects. “I guess I should leave you two to your… wait… why are you both out here… together?”

Nadia stands a little straighter as the strings of mischief tighten ‘round her. “We’re here to perform the dark morning rituals. I was just about to fetch the lamb,” she smiles in that delicately serious manner of hers. 

Asra nods solemnly to keep from snorting with laughter and ruining the joke. 

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Sure you were…”

“And… what were you doing?” Asra pries. “_Singing?_”

Ilya withers with embarrassment. “…Rehearsing.”

“Pray tell,” Nadia waves a curious hand. “In _which_ language? Forgive my candour, but that sounded like absolute gibberish. Definitely not one of the languages you are fluent with?”

“Well,” an embarrassed chuckle rises up from deep in Ilya’s chest. He shifts stance to better appear humble. “It was an **attempt** at Hansine... but I can’t quite do it justice yet. I’m sure you’ll attest.”

“_Mmm~hm,_” Nadia taps a knuckle against the bridge of her nose. “You’d have to ask Anri for accurate feedback on your Hansine, Ilya.” Then gloved hands clap together to hurry along any potentially awkward questions. “Right now, I have my hands full with the _holy_ Omanic texts.”

“Oh…” Asra lifts a brow. What an unexpected reminder. “If you need any help with _that_? Actually, _un_holy Omanic is my native tongue, but my mother grew up with the holy dialect first, so she also taught me its alphabet and history.”

“Yes… I did notice those pronouns on your collar.” Nadia lifts an eyebrow. She lingers over Asra for a second longer. “I’ve been told the holy alphabet isn’t commonly used here since the last Count left government. Lucio… does little for the native culture, unfortunately. I had mostly fancied a way to challenge my calligraphy… but perhaps we are destined, Asra-Magician. Speaking to your mother would greatly aid my education, if I might beget the chance?”

“Oh, well,” Asra tries to hold his head up high. “You can’t actually speak to _mamti_ <my mother>. She and _babaya_ <my father> kind of **disappeared**… years ago, when I was still a child.”

“Oh, really?” Ilya dips closer. “Now that sounds like a story?”

Asra tenses. “Not one I’ll tell you…”

“Oh,” the doctor immediately retreats, “many thousands of apologies, o’ grand mage of untold wonders. Please forgive an old sea-farer his nasty pirate habits.”

“…You were a pirate?” Asra cannot help picturing a sea breeze tousle through Ilya’s long, auburn locks.

The doctor smirks with satisfaction, resuming a very _definitely candid_ and _casual_ stance. “I was, indeed,” he couples his humble admission with an enticing hair-toss. “It’s okay. You can imagine me with a Captain’s hat and an eye-patch. I know it’s dashing…”

“I think,” Asra snickers, “you’d be more dashing with a _cut tongue_.”

“My, that was _biting_,” Ilya’s laughter rings with nerves. “Do I really make that bad of a first impression?”

“Don’t worry over it, Ilya,” Nadia intervenes. “It would seem our new friend here is quite the tease,” she throws Asra a coy glance - just stern enough to fluster him - before turning back to Ilya. “In all honesty, your impressions on both the stage **and** the battlefield are easily deemed _life-saving_, in more ways than one.” She rests a gentle hand on his shoulder for a moment, bringing a stunned blush to the doctor’s cheeks.

“I- Tha- ankyou, thanks, I… thank you. Actually,” Ilya clears his throat, “I’m really excited about this play. _‘Love Amongst the Dragons’_, have you ever heard of it?” 

Asra shakes his head while Nadia ponders. “It does sound familiar…”

“Well, it’s beloved all across Hana, apparently. One of Anri’s favourites. They have some _incredible_ effects planned for the performance. Really… **incredible**. I thought it was real fire…! It’s even warm! But uh, Ben refined some translations for a modern stage. We’ll perform it in Lorim but… it’s clear Ben is having a hard time getting the lyrics to translate cleanly. Not to mention, uh, I just thought it might uh, be… um, kind-of… _impressive_… maybe? If I could learn to sing it in the original Hansine… but, it probably still sounds like vocal _murder_,” he mimes painful maiming to fully express the sentiment.

“Do you know what would be more impressive?” Nadia purses her lips, brows quirking.

Doctor Devorak perks up hopefully. 

“If you asked for **help**,” she smirks with the assertion.

The doctor snorts. “Oh, _you~_”

“Honestly, there isn’t any reason suffering through it on your own, Ilya. Surely, you haven’t learned other languages this way… It would have been impossible.”

“Well… No… I spoke to locals.”

“Precisely.”

“But that just happened naturally. I can’t just-”

“Ilya. _Devorak_. **You can just _ask_ for help**. There: now you have formal permission from your Countess. Actually… it’s an order. Perhaps I’ll even hire you a tutor. After all, it will be an absolute benefit both to yourself and to the city-state you serve, if you could fluently communicate with Hana’an medical experts.”

“…Okay.”

“The proper response for somebody in your position is a good firm, _yes milady!_” Nadia demonstrates with a confident salute. “Now, then, doctor Devorak?”

“Y-yes? Yes, milady,” he manages a somewhat shaky salute, cheeks reddening by the second. 

Asra giggles at his awkward fumbling. 

“Very well... I can see why rehearsing is so valuable to you,” Nadia hides her snicker with a mischievous wink. It does nothing to improve the deep red flush in the doctor’s cheeks. 

Ilya does his best to hide his blush behind equally rich red hair.

“How many languages do you know?”

Ilya hesitates, “well, uh, that depends... Can you define ‘knowing’, in this context?”

“Um… How many languages are you fluent in?”

Ilya pauses again. “Right, so… Define ‘fluent’?”

“This will get us nowhere,” Nadia sighs. “Ilya here is a language sponge. He’ll suck them in just as quickly as one can wring all the vocabulary back out again.”

“_Pft_. Thanks… but we prefer the term _polyglot_,” Ilya snarks.

“Polyglots retain the languages they learn, Ilya,” Nadia chuckles.

“Well… you’ve got me there, yeah. It’s… Look, it’s all in there if I say it often enough. It just takes me a little while to… to transition between, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Asra giggles.

“Right? Like, mentally? It’s like each language forms a different mind-state… Wait, does that make sense?”

“It does,” Nadia assures.

“Sounds similar to magic, actually.” Asra sneers light-heartedly at the disgust on Ilya’s face.

"Oi- you take that back."

"Shan't," Asra chuckles. "Magic is also just a state of mind."

"Language is nothing like magic," Ilya sounds more like he is trying to convince himself of this. "It's... a _real thing_, to begin with."

"Actually, Ilya, many linguists believe there is subtle magic in all our words as well."

"_Noo_, no, that can't be right. Magic just borrows from languages, surely."

Sunlight slowly creeps into the hedge maze's central courtyard, to bathe the trio in a new day’s light. They remain to converse for hours, without a care for passing time.


End file.
